Beside the tracks, two

houses stand fifty feet

apart in a fogsurrounding

moon. Fort Steel, Wyoming.

A soldiers uniform crosses,

no earthly form attached.

Over by what was the mess

hall, a thin white bony arm

hastens water fron a dry

well. The face turns, no

eyes, and disappears. Something

jumps from behind a leafless

tree. Gun drawn, we recoil.

The soldier takes aim,

but fades into the low mountains

in the distance. Hours ahead,

Utah. And these ghostillusions

run along with the train.