Colonial moss and plumes of baroque fern…
a station like a mouldy cake layered for a forgotten
coronation: icing stucco, pillars of sponge,
then a heart of darkness where the train stops,
a spasm in the network: the doors stay closed,
and the windows bead with tropical damp.
A moment in the striplit shadows, Gare de Léopoldville,
then we ease back into Belgium, a barge
sliding through diamond-studded blood and water.