Shooting upon the back of the shimmering stallion
That careens into the wilderness,
A tropical technological mechanical
The railway is a tangle of rope,
Burning with the engine churning,
And hissing at the ash stuck in the sky.
The wheels are clocks rattling in circles declaring the time 9: 13.
And the beast is a whale alone,
Searching for a home like a search-light,
With ragged buccaneers caught on his back,
Could you pass the sugar? ”
I took a pinch, sprinkled vinegar into the form of a ballet dancer
Of legs the length of string,
And she skipped across the plastic, autonomous.
I drew the deceased curtains across the window onto a page,
And felt the choking on the glass,
Of the glitter, the night, the rain that gasps.
I ask, Where are we going?
The carriage rocks and jolts across the faults,
To-ing and fro-ing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.