Commute

I.
What did I expect
when I stepped out
into the drizzly morning
and handed coins
to the man at the corner?
The cars and motorini
jolted at the lights,
and the world and all its people
were there to remind me
of something—I’m still
not sure exactly what.

II.

I could just step off the platform
to catch the train
before I miss it
again. That warm
passage is trust.

III.
All the commuters looking out
of windows at the hurtling world
uproot trees, break down
roots and boulders to debris,
even the daylight kindled
from the darkness that light is
without eyes. The world is
in blazes in our brains:
humus in fields,
shadows under ploughing,
litter of torn paper birds.

IV.
The train stops in a field,
where a mare champing hay
watches us watching her.
Bits of straw ray from her lips,
the train reflected in her eyes.
We’re looking at her looking.
The horse of solid earth,
keeper of perfect graves,
is seeing us.

V.
This could take a while,
just a matter of time.
We might wait suspended
until we feel the first slippage of wind
unsettling the tomb’s lid.