Amtrak Sunset
	Fearing even sunsets are insignificant,
				we book a domed car that insists on
	panorama,
				on our making meaning of particles and light.
	From this vantage heaven is glass being blown. The molten excess drips onto leafless red-twig dogwoods along the frozen shore, and for this moment high tension wires above and lit plastic signs beyond
					are lost. We eclipse
	another town. The universal bowl cools. The glass perfectly clear, perfectly black except for flaws of stars. Satellite dishes flood living room windows blue as the Nile, red as the lava of Iceland. The fingers of dogwood fade. Our velocity erases a trail of cows heading for a rhombus of light.
				In the dark we see
	a rowboat turning slowly in the river swollen to lake,
			turning among invisible red twigs,
	turning under the thundering bridge, and in that water black and blank as a dead TV screen,
		we begin to see clearly all we are forgetting.