Ace Tunnel
Drilled through a haunted mountain,
Ace Tunnel sighs a fetid breath.
The railroad abandoned it
and laid fresh track around it
because the murmur of the ghosts
amplified to drown out diesels
and the rock walls glowed with colors
geologists couldn’t assay.
Let’s walk through it. Moss carpets
the floor, thick pelt muffling footfall,
although voices resound in depth.
Our flashlights seem too feeble
to dent the dark, but the glimmer
of rare minerals incites us
with a sub-sexual fervor
unusual in people our age.
Three-mile trek, groundwater dripping
and the undertone of ghost
a tremor almost too slight to feel.
You aren’t afraid of anything
except the slight possibility
of a ghost train running us down.
We stumble on the rotten ties
and splash through stagnant puddles.
The phosphorescence flickers
and tints our faces corpse pale.
Despite its mildew atmosphere,
the tunnel’s innocent enough,
brisk and healthy rats dashing
over our shoes. At the far portal
we gaze out into a landscape,
then turn to retrace our steps.
But we see no glimmer ahead,
where we entered the tunnel,
and blank granite where we stood
in sunlight moments ago.
Ace Tunnel has sealed us inside
itself. The question now is which
of us will first be digested,
and whether one will suffice.