Ully Hirsch/Robert F. Nettleton Poetry Prize Runner-Up

When I take the train to Pennsylvania
it winds in at night, through those
hills, past those porches

Your dreams lit the fires of steel
mills that now seem mere scenery,
stubborn and decorative

It tastes like slate and I still have
nightmares.  I lit my dreams on
fire to propel myself away

from the city you died in,
fast as I could
to return only at dusk –

I still remember your scent, and

I’m sorry.