189 To Constance I saw a crying woman on a train, the trembling woman On the trembling train -- as if it was travail, not travel, As if it should be tragedy, not transit, not the movement But the trammel, travesty on transportation, racking Rampage. I saw the trepidation of the rapid metal Enter her -- as if it was the requiem, not railroad, The rape, not commutation, not the volts and the electric Traction, but regret and ravage, multiplied by rattle. The train was crammed -- for her it was deserted, shaking only Her enveloped in the brittle shroud of daily papers Rehearsed by ghosts in silence. And her face was fading -- almost Newspaper itself -- grisaille that never burns with frenzy, The regimen of exclamation marks and commas scrabbled On her skin, especially in crowfeet by her eyes, but That day, she was unable to restrain the train -- the tremor Magnified by wheels, gears, bolts, rails, levers, sleepers, mileage. As if it was, no, not the woman, but the train that panicked Rushing not ahead, but from the past -- the giant metallic Hysteria, the mechanics of remorse -- resentful, restless, Raveled, forty maybe years of age, fake-blonde, electric.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems