rocking of the train
lurches from kiev
to bratislava, through
wet forest. this journey
is odyssean, unfastened.
i have swallowed the world
and lost sight of land.
i can hardly remember
where I began. this headache
must be indigestion, a feeble
attempt to process what
I have learned. squat houses
pass by outside my window,
sharp contrast to palatial
extravagances of cities.
gold restorations, fountains
built while others starved.
if I had to choose between
bread and circuses, I would have
said bread was the more important
for survival. in my capsule
24 hours of solitary, time is
surreal and there are no words
for the dingy yellow curtain,
the green plastic blind, the
dirty red carpet. we are travelling
the wrong direction, other than last night,
this landscape becomes familar
and the familiar will seem alien
on my return. borders and space,
languages. I am crossing histories
and hospitality. arbitrary lines
when the real divider is tongue.
we shudder to a halt next to wagonloads
of rock, next to elegant stations with
ironwork, in the middle of nowhere,
for pre-determined amounts of time
secrets of timetables, secrets of maps
across land, navigation and ancient paths.
