The Train

How this thing,

when too close
thundering and booming and roaring past
spinning wheels and rusted metal shriek
in protest

whose onward march thrums
the ground
the air

its incessant cries 
humming in my skull
and drowning out all but for the
hot beat of blood
rushing through my ears
and my chest,

could somehow,

as I lay in bed
gazing at the soft glow of street lamps
peeking through my blinds

its distant call now gentle,
a wistful echo from across the bay

long after its lullaby fades away
yet still lingering within me,

lull me to sleep.