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121 sTeering The TrAin There were wheels in the cars of the old IRT trains we took to our adventures in Times Square That comes back bright sliver from our playworld It rolls away from the image of my father in a hospital bed in diapers raising his arms to God to help him shit arms so white and wrinkled they look like empty sleeves There’s no magic in my father’s death There’s no no in the unconscious Pop said that they were steering wheels that I could steer the train So I’d swagger to the front car ahead of him and he strolled behind smiling on his sonny I knew I wasn’t steering The tracks and how would the train go when I wasn’t riding? Still I doublethought a spirit steering that my father gave me like a pinball game in the underworld If we hit it right the train racketed in the black tunnel 122 speedsparks no red or yellow all green into Grand Central Station that was just as it said a kind of pelvis When I bent to kiss my father goodbye in the hospital I got the same stubble feel as when I was a little boy flying in his lap stubble subway cemetery It reminded me of steering the trains Just before we swooshed in sudden light crowded platform other tracks flashed for an instant split off ghost axis at an angle in the dark ...

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