The train is running off track, the air oneiric and chill.
We cut across the forest like thieves. All that derails
is one thread of your scarf – I am dizzy with its unravelling.
How linear it is. Almost absurd, this logic of movement.
The train breaks; the trolley man falls back, burns
his face with coffee. Outside trees commit acrobatics
in the elastic wind. I shoot three scenes with you
by the window. We have blackened out your eyes,
but a strange science is at work: here your pupils
are visible; here your hair flies in with the draught (action-
reaction); and there your skin is so pale we see blood
channel through. I shake my black box. It rattles.
It too works with theorems and will they come apart
if opened?
art. literature. commentary.
