Taut on the leash, at last I have my way;
The train jolts off, just for a split-second
Immobilizing a porter I catch sight of
Through my window, pushing his cart. The platform's
A treadmill or a backward rack; for, his feet
Notwithstanding, he grinds into reverse.
Left behind in underground darkness. . . .
That forward-backward prank gets cruelly played
On every car or truck that races with us
Along the paralleling highway; try
As they might, our motion slowly brakes them.
It sends them backsliding faster and faster
Behind; a feeling I recall from nightmares
(Nightmares, and, to tell the truth, from " real life "
As well). Another stunt of overtaking
(Like my own sharp about-face two months back)
Is the fateful rotation a car makes;
Trunk to grill we see it, a slow, pivotal
Display — practiced, in fact, on every near
Item in the window, especially trees,
Their radially branching form flung into perfect
Umbrella turns (clockwise, because I see them
From the train's left side). Indian file they run
And pirouette together, the closest rank
So much quicker than others farther out,
Which fall behind at a desultory pace.
(This constant shuffle between two points has made
At least some aspects of the pattern clearer.)
Passengers riding backwards, though, see things
Otherwise — and must feel guilty about it;
When I turn and catch them looking, their eyes
Drop, and they assume a preoccupied
Air meant to mime some private train of thought.
Impatience? Funk? A half-wish for derailment?
(They don't have you waiting for them, smiling. . . .
Our steady, legato impetus is barred
At regular intervals by metal poles
That fly by in a soon predictable
Tempo, echoed also by the sag and soar
Of highstrung staff lines hanging down between,
I keep looking for groups of eighth-note starlings
To give the gallop a tune, but none are there,
Nor ever even a rest, just a continuing
Inaudible rush, variably elastic
According to our speed, which hums the landscape
Into a final tableau of motion itself —
A thing so strangely still at its utmost —
The factories, ashheaps, stations, transports caught
In a fastness that wants to hold my eyes
In thrall and lock me up in sleepless dreams.
(Your voice is putting accents in the transit,
Pulling me toward you on a silken line —
And dreams that ran on time were Vehicles-
For-Something-Else. . . .? )

My mind winks on again — yes, there's that river
We cross here now, the same and always different.
A breeze intangible to me suddenly
Wakes the trees and blows on the gray water,
Shriveling the surface into a kind of
Elephant skin. A chevron of migrant geese
Flies into it — bull's eye straight to the heart
Of twenty concentric spreading circles. Water,
Birds, trees, swerve; how is it possible
To be moved in so many ways at once?

Our conductor shouts the listened-for station.
Though I've kept to one spot, the place has changed,
That, along with the name, which, red letter by
Reverse red letter, rolls toward me. Our shared
News — and the rest is neither here nor there,
Is anywhere we both shelter, still moving
Toward deeper welcomes, reunions. This racing
Panic will stop, once it's reminded we are
The only place I really want to go.