Thomas Festa

 

                         go past
the church where I once thought I’d worship, 
the rusted, high trestle bridge
where cargo trains used to run.  

In the crowded cemetery
in this once-prosperous town,
above the sundial looms
an angel with no hands.  

Past the shag bark hickory
of déjà vus forgotten, 

through thick river mist,
shadows call us to each other 

like a guidebook left at home
just a short hike from the ruins.