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57 Pa ndrol Jackson Along a derelict railroad, abandoned machinery takes its last tour of duty toward rust. Another town is stalling. Another house smolders with rot while a television rages. Crows patrol banked cinders beside a landfill with a sign: No Dumping. We were Jews in Austria. No, we spoke German in Czechoslovakia—by order of the Alliance, we filed Into a railroad car and died. No, we were black in Arkansas. Here is a filthy contraption, like a grim lawn mower With flanged iron wheels, Pandrol Jackson in blue paint on its rotted housing: a rail grinder, used to polish steel To brilliance, forgotten here as after the Rapture. And the carcass of a boxcar warps just down the track, groaning with a cargo of bones. ...

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