Through past/present/future, the Imagist Express still clatters, bending time, space,
and everything else that truly matters.
The eclectic, mingled aroma
of Turkish coffee, French onion soup,
and spicy Kung Pao almonds,
wafts from the kitchen,
stinging the ornamental eyes
carved into the lounge car's ceiling.
A draft clears the air—
squinted eyes become wide-angle lenses;
pupils melt like hot candle wax,
dripping onto toes that are tapping
to the rhythmic beat of iron bones
spinning 'round below.
Barely—just barely,
the passengers feel the engine's migratory yearning as the conductor switches the tracks
of thought, so mesmerized they are
with their reflections in the windows:
pale faces dangling from a moistened,
black bough. The strange, intoxicating fruit
hangs
amongst the smudges of fingerprints,
their spirals, bending time, space,
and everything else that truly matters.