in the railroad yard just outside Rockland
where my son begins to take photographs
of old Boston & Maine cars, their rust reflecting
red gold in the setting sun as rows of windows
burn a while and go dark.
From cars to coaches he goes, stopping them
on their slow way into time, but no one
will reverse this, no one paint and repair,
grease the trucks, the wheels, replace air hoses
and route the cars out for a run to cities
on the seaboard in a rhythmic clatter of life.
Here is a graveyard hush, the cars their own
monuments hulking in the nightfall yard,
shadows throwing shadows, my son quiet
among them, carefully taking them away
even as time settles each car deeper
into the weeds, into him.