It is only just september
and already leaves turn
golden, orange and fall
next to green apples, tart
in the ukrainian sunlight
outside the window the wall
of a metal train carriage
white number 406354
before we slowly glide
soundlessly away. 50 years
ago, the train might
have held people, hopeless.
what constellation of rack, curtain,
rail, sand, window, light,
movement, lurch, netting, space
will hold for you the sense
of this place, 19 hours in,
14 to go.
I mine myself for emotions
I have travelled too far
and am anchorless in the eddies
light on water
tiny wooden villages
in green fields
sunflowers
distress comes clothed
in biting winds
rushing crowds
toothless women
by the tracks begging
for grivna tossed from windows
moments and reactions
resonance
my own curator’s tag
is in a tongue I do not speak
object clear, context
entirely absent