Passengers

Night is loading
on the back of the train
as it slopes gently
past wheatfields
down the long Atlantic plain,
the carriages buckling
at a blank velocity
over England's foothills,
the ink smudged ticket
chewed back accidentally
into the great machine,
each passenger keeping
their deep sea watchword close:
take me with you,
there are many stations,
we are going downwards
into a sunken Kingdom,
take me with you.

And night is loading
the trees hove in view
as white as coral,
the sliding deep
has cut a path towards
the central drain,
and there you see
silhouettes of seapeople
their mouths full of salt,
which glows like phosphorus
from their darkened faces.
Someone is taking tickets
from their unresisting hands
saying take me with you,
there are many stations,
there are many doors,
we are going downwards
into a sunken Kingdom,
take me with you.
I am in your hand.
There are many stations,
and I have forgotten my name.