After Max Ernst's 'Europe after the Rain'
In the dark
each sits alone
clutching his flag
I have more than my one death
to attend to
there is a sickness about
and the magician has vanished
But I sit with my twenty six years
spread on my palms
and I wait for the silence
when the programme is interrupted
and the speakers have no script.
And I think how to carry my children
into the sewers.
Roll up the cities.
Let the window explode
in a million glass flowers.
In the darkness already
the woman picking milk from the step
the ashes raked last thing at night
are postures, buried
slipping into dust, rock, ooze,
furniture of a planet
wheeling in silence
lonely as a train
waving its little handkerchiefs of steam
Ken Smith's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Train by Ken Smith )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 - 1882)
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