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.