Poem for G.C. Waldrep
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

Without any history of night

we go towards


a bound booklet of

verse to lesson us:


Station of labors, spotlit

station of horseways


A livery,


a mole going through the mulch

apart from the shorn hands

we play.


Station beyond the

orchard ghosts, young

white mare, young


city going through us

finely like silt—us or that city

alive in treacherous


hollows for traincars more train

cars an


occasional footbridge wooded.