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The wing where I am looks down on a station
I listen at night (my nights are wakeful) to the noise
Of machines heating up and trains that are adjusted
And really it is rumors of echoed nests
To the gods of iron and glass and the fat of coal
You have no idea how it twitters
As we would say like the efforts of little birds
Toward their next flight into the purple skies
Even though the daybreak scarcely lights up
Those cars that will race downhill onto the plain!