I couldn't live in such a place,
yet I love these evening skies,
the way the light sinks down
into the cobalt range and swiftly dies,
the way the highway veers off
from the grid of streets,
two thin grey lanes
that arc into tow-coloured plains
lost in welling loneliness;
offset by glaring station lights,
the locomotive's lamp a strobe
to split the husk of winter dusk,
the train's full stop as punctuation.