The train pulls us along.

Who knows the difference between travelling

and waiting. The window

has a flat tawny landscape. Einstein

has the clock. Factories

muddy with rust and pastures fenced

by threads of sunlight tear

past our eyes. The posts and roads

running alongside the track

are too busy pacing us to wave.
Like blue mushrooms appearing overnight,

the huge bourgeoning You Yangs.
As their spore, the ash of stars,

we start speaking.