She
saw her train was stretching here to home like movie reel
and
felt beneath her for the one seat that was hers in every frame.
All
of it was in succession: beats and blinks and breaths,
a
strand of instants spun within a whispering machine,
while
somewhere cue marks hung mysterious in the bends.
She’d
been here once before, to this way of thinking.
After
the funeral, it had been a comfort to her
to
think of the wheel suspended, its immortal nitrate,
all
of them forever fixed into their seats
forever real, though out of reach.
Now, she looked left, and the lands
fluttered rapidly.
Boxes
down to gables down to spotted green.
-- Michelle Clark
