From a train, each act is slowed, made trivial
in a sadness outside duration. That’s the real
wisdom of trains … You hurtle past a suburb: men limp
into doorways, schoolgirls stroll the sun, the street
vendors are statuettes with heavy mechanical limbs.
Who was it said time is an engine of cogs and gears?
Look again. This crowded shtetl is no vanished world
from the mists of time, sealed in monochrome sorrow,
but life, poised at the lit leading edge of time. A child
waves, smiles up at us: as if there’s no tomorrow.