(She dreamt too much. She dreamt too
much and worried.)
A man balances cocktails
On a cart balancing on wheels
Above wheels. It is all in motion—
The cart, the train, the earth
As it fiddles with its patterns.
The lights flicker. And so she awakes.
Deep breath. She and everything is
Still around her, around her red lips.
She is no traveler, no broad image
To be watched. She is no portrait.
Night wraps the train like a mitten.
She awakes. Her fist closes
Around a moth, its dust shook-shooking
An invertebrate panic
Impossible to see. She’s no moth.
She is stillness. She is a train in the dark.