Night is all I've had of France
so far, a fast paced, a picture
show of two-minute towns
the train doesn't stop for.
All shutters shut. Emptiness
against my open curtains.
Narbonne shows me its legroom,
speaks in whispers
I'm run down! I'm run down!
Toulouse so quick in the quiet--
no time to write my name on
the feeling. This train has a plan,
it's on track, so industrious.
At the crossing railway
bolts surrender to beauty.
Not postcard to send of this.
Let the train move me
in directions unmediated
as the map of me sleeps.
Every time I have aplan
I let it go out the window.
Photo: Daniel Aniszewski, Picspree.
