The City Moves in Me

Terror swims inside me like a basking shark
It’s my sullen wake, it fills the air behind
As I’m drawn along suburban stone.
I see the wild forgotten as a dream is forgotten
I know I dreamed, but what was it?

I stand on a hill and see the city
Draining down its valley plughole
Soft scars left in the grading air.
I see this city move as a scrapheap moves
Slowly downwards, churning the earth.

Waiting for a bus I wait too long
And my figure, mistaken for a statue
By some routine artist in a tatty book
Is selected for the top of the heap
Which moves, and the wild falls further.

In a shifting forest, in the past beyond thought
A foraging girl picks out an acorn
From a dry skin of leaves, her breath
Marks the air. She leaves it
And the earth hurtles out from beneath.

A Baby Cries on the Train

In her voice the death of the stars peeks out
as she cries in unknowing on the train
the vast machinations have no doubt
but she is consumed by it
and an instant erasure at the sound of the caring
who made the right move, as if by chance
and quiet stupefaction takes the air
and relief for the others, who sat in the carriage
occasionally throw her a glance.
That we must each pass through uncaring torment
in a world we made, but not made for us
is the darkest blot on the soul of each one
and we see it again in the birth and tribulations
with moments of quiet in the stellar sun.