ONE VERSION OF WHERE THINGS GO (OR HOW TO MAKE ALIVING WRITING POETRY)
Jason Nelson
Wait. Wait until the last car leaves with the train. Rain handles itself, the old woman will say, an umbrella types and casts a reel. Calling from a booth in a field filled with water are the people you want to avoid. They might appear to be fishing. But look closely at their line and hook, their brief sequence of notes drawing your ear, and you will find them checking pockets for change. Stare the tracks down for crushed quarters. Hold the soaked ties in one hand and pull up on the rails. Fire makes things straight, the old woman will say, resined wood begins where everything begins. You will strain, recalling random seconds of past straining. And when you become worn and the ties sink into gravel, you should consider polishing your speech. Make the words appear as chairs or plush toys. Make each sentence repeat the structure of the first. Still your vibrating cords and collect rainwater in a mug that reads “World’s Greatest Suspension Bridge.” But before you speak, before you take all of this far too far away, huddle with the superstars, those famous sounding names, stacked in feuding groups of eight or five. They won’t offer much warmth or soft places to fondle, but the station has closed, you’ve lost your wallet and the wise old woman wears her shawl like an iron gate.