It is only the old yellow shell
of something long gone on,
a dusty tunnel echoing
with light, yet you can feel
the speed along it, feel
in your bones the tick of wheels.

You hold a glove of lace,
a loose glitter of sequins.
The ghost of a wind is in it still
for someone only yesterday
was waving it: goodbye.

Somewhere, a long train
crosses a border. The sun lights lamps
in its thousand round windows.
All it knows is behind it already.
Nothing is knows is ahead.
Its whistle flicks into the distance.