There is a railroad. There is coming
until near the end, then arrival.

Near the end everything is built to move
away. May it return.

There is a whole heap of earth to cut across
for me to come to you

to dig into, to burn and to turn
to steam, to coal, and to iron.

To make a list of our space: 1. Machine
2.  Everything that we made,

what we have become. Extinct,
that’s the manifest. Destiny comes far after.

There is a mine up North, its very name
defining ownership. Mine.

Mine can’t be taken, not by strong back,
not by shovel, not by fire.

My very essence is in the wind
and it travels to you, transversing

mine country. Keep digging mine.
Coalmine, mining for ore. Mine for us.

Iron out mine details. Mine.
You don’t have to share mine

unless you truly wish. Deepen mine
thoughts as they dig for you.

Rita, the planet mine, the U.P. mine,
The un-earthed mine. Mine

that it may all go away.

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MARK MAGOON writes poetry, short-fiction, and secret songs for his dog. His work is forthcoming or has been featured in After Hours, DIALOGIST, Ghost Ocean Magazine, and Midwestern Gothic. He lives in Chicago with a wife far too pretty.

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