On a moving train I can’t rest
on the ground any more, unsettling
and flying on backwards through air
so the earth flows like water
in blue and old grey.
Trees and green fields, even houses and sheep
don’t wander but flow,
turn to liquid and stream.
No rain, only membranes of glass
from a train and a trembling of torso
so fluid and flowing like blood or a lymph,
amoeba or nymph, on an engine
vibrating my feet and my bum
‘til we stop, ‘til we stop, moving on.
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