Along the tracks run the trains and the poems.
They run by day and they run by night. Little windows
so the light can breathe – every three
seconds, three seconds. The speed
curls into your ears like the long tail
of a mermaid. Swallowing
a word so as to hear it there once more.
On the platforms someone waves,
someone, who. Goods trains stuffed to the gunwales,
passenger trains, trains pulling cattle-trucks,
trains full of stretchers, trains of deportees.
Without warning, the tunnel closes
its eyes. Shadows stagger, heavy
as suitcases too full of roots.
And this absurd poem derails,
speaking – I think – about distance.