At the West Bottoms, Kansas City

My grandmother showed me old pictures of the West Bottoms an industrial flatland rail next to rail next to rail— tracks lying together like matchsticks in a pack. Her eyes studied those old photos. The West Bottoms reminded her of a time ago. She is the oracle

of dusty remains shattered windows clusters of brick buildings in disarray warehouse ghosts abandoned lots derelict train cars of rail next to rail next to rail next to rail

next to nothing of a time ago.

Grandmother said: “Stand alert. Do not attempt to go out in a burst of light.” I kicked dust up near the tracks with my sneakers

and she is the oracle.

At Golden Gardens, Seattle

I am the tracker

my ear to the ground I hear the dull hum of metal vibrating through the earth. A rhythmic clink

scratching steel ties. Such a strange mechanic language laced with the dull voices of hundreds of passengers. Her pulse a few quick clinks Rabid now. Panting

until her cold whistle is on top of me. Steel and conversations race past my head. A train disappears in the dusty moonlight before I could say she was even here.

In the old sunken roads the hola wegs electric grass blades stand alert like tiny soldiers. A growing orb yellow light breaks the oily dark whistle, shrill steel, sweaty.

Soldier grass blades swirl in the wind [some hunker in the dirt, some waver] but most fly away with the train. They are stuck in the wheel axles. In the rusty metal joints. Under the bottoms of my old, tired West Bottoms feet

and I am the tracker.