Means

I walk the robing corridors of trains, touching

steel and glass, sure of their shape. Clutching

the sides of things, suspended by motionless objects

in motion, I am a man believing in things fingers

touch. Touch tells me most. I reject

a reflected existence in metal that lingers

beside me; it is tricked into being by light,

like an aping shadow. Yet I accept that slow

procession of fields beyond glass, this night

reaching over stooked corn, the sun’s dead glow.

Watching the side rail slide into darkness, pale

windows tighten to mirrors. They borrow frail

shapes from the lit and peopled compartment.

Means become ends. I turn from this game of bent

lights and return, trusting the corn to hold still.