Thursday, 7 April 2011


On a moving train I can’t rest

on the ground any more, unsettling

and flying on backwards through air

so the earth flows like water

in blue and old grey.

Trees and green fields, even houses and sheep

don’t wander but flow,

turn to liquid and stream.

No rain, only membranes of glass

from a train and a trembling of torso

so fluid and flowing like blood or a lymph,

amoeba or nymph, on an engine

vibrating my feet and my bum

‘til we stop, ‘til we stop, moving on.

No comments:

Post a Comment