We remember a train, mounds of moss
on its ashen rails.
Train of the past, a ghost that roars and splits
our childhood dreams in two.
In my country, every clatter of a locomotive
was an ominous sound.
But here, you know, I ride the train like straddling
the back of something, with others right behind.
We’re all so close, the trembling of another body
comes into my breath, and I don’t mind
a stranger’s head resting on my shoulder.
We do everything on the train, sleep is the least of it:
make-up, meals, speaking in tongues.
The heat that floats above our heads, that back stretched
over the surface of the world:
that is the animal I’ve been trying to tell you about.
Animal
But here, you know, I ride the train like straddling / the back of something, with others right behind
