Thoughts

On a platform I stand,

the ground glides beneath my feet.

With the gale I sway

and the ground I shun.

In this calm, there are words.

These words seep into and from somewhere.

Then come stories

that I dread.

Photographs I refuse to stitch,

soar in speed first like trains I have met.

I gape at each dispassionately

long enough

until they turn coy and drip.

Leaving me with a new one.

But I do the same.

Till my tongue retires

and my speech goes to bed.