These are trestles Pompey walked across and wore
down; train-traced, unfettered track that wound
and wildly heralded comings, goings, mill-stopped
visits to a wife, billowing (air-marring, water).
Just time, justly intimate are wheels and rail;
Turn-enforced and collision-led sundays, mondays
tried to twist a firmer land. Unfortunate are
these forces; unfortunate that they should fail.
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