train station

Express Motion
Ward Kelley

It was never intended to be a free fall,
this plummet, this drop into the sensuous

noose, this eclipse of the normal thought.
Nor was it supposed to be a door, where

one had simply to pass to the other side
then close it to walk contentedly away. No,

this whisking off of the soul was never
meant to have anything to do with those

who would think to be contented. It's a
drop, a menace, an enthrallment, a present

of express motion, a bedevilment of sliding
where the bottom always becomes just one

more entry into the next disappearance of
flooring, similar, I suppose, to a hanging--

these poems that fall and fall, drawing the knot
more firmly around the neck of the soul, a present.

Photo (detail) by Michael Moreth