Between fires,
they’re as still as a speckled pear
or a silver drinking cup
arranged on a damask tablecloth,
though their sheer readiness,
as they peer out of the station,
gives them a certain twitchy aura,
as if each truck somehow extended
into the space about an eighth
of an inch in front of itself,
where it soon will be for a second,
then out beyond all things still and composed.