Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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49

The Train Is Burning

The train is burning right here, in the station,

softly turning to gas, a handful of dust,

so we make our way through all this construction

carefully, across a bridge of viscid mist,

through autumn, and outside the ocean hisses

in haze and magma. The day's ebullitions

froth at the edges, high tide. A spiteful moon

turns the body, sticks a rag doll, does voodoo.

The season is over and there are plenty

of random rooms to rent, even with a view.

Graceful echoing can be heard from lofty

gulls anchored in the sky, and there's a path to

duly follow later down to the local bar

with the fleet commander and the entire crew.

But watch out! The fisherman throws dice, the wreck

of a beautiful novel rusts in the park.

_____