Why western is a b stop –

The husking time again.
Half-holden moons linger over this city in the heat
of August. I think it is this heat, or this movement.
Life moving side to side,
rocking to a heated, golden rhyme,
and I am cutting through,
leaving pieces in the cross-section of space
where I was, and the world is.

The churches are landmarks for me,
breaking the tree-line like mammoths in a veldt of prayers;
I can sight them from the train and know
that I am near.
This is the loneliest time, time,
the time of immense and disturbing silence,
when the sway of an elevated car and the spark of steel and rail
are suddenly symbolic,
but of what,
I do not know.

The husking time again.
Quarter-glow moons are like the stopwatch;
I am moving to a place so rapidly,
that Indian cycles are the only measure,
Indians know that people change like seasons,
if they move like brooks.

I do not look, either, at faces, or into eyes,
unspoken codes allow people the privacy of hermits or saints
when they board;
suddenly, there is no singing, and there is only swaying
of metal on a hurried path.
It makes one wonder if people are worthy of love.

The husking time again.
In darkness from the sky, I am reached.
No bonfires, no flashlights, no beaconing.
I can hear the pieces rushing like leaves on concrete,
clawing to find the one who discarded them.

I cannot smell others,
the lingering of sweat from platform is mine,
this reminds me of each time I change:
when I lose my sense of after-you,
when I lost my sense of touch,
and people blur into uniformity,
and churches rising and floating in trees
are perfect goals,
stone serenity to guide me
past these moons of August,
and this primal need to lose myself.