Lincoln, leaving Springfield, 1861, 
         boards a train with a salute: but it is weak. 
To correct it, he slides his hand away 
         from his face as if waving, as if brushing 
the snows of childhood from his eyes. 

The train is coming east. In the window 
         Lincoln watches his face. You’ll grow old 
the moment you arrive, he says to this face. 
         But you will never reach great age. The train 
speeds like the cortical pressure wave 

in the left lateral sinus, say, a bullet 
         in the skull. Then he will have his salute. 
Then they will love him. Then eternity will slow, fall 
         like snow. Then the treaty with huge silence 
which he, his face exhausted, must sign.

David Kepllinger