Something of the rhythm of lovemaking. Some random word spoken in the day, dropped to rise again and again tonight. Lemon verbena. Lemonver bena. Verb en a lemon a Lebanon lime. Metal wheels turning time turningtime turning time, sing me a story without any rhyme. Just the rocking of the train that’s all, just the rocking of the train ain n. From the echoes of Grand Central where we change and change the train to Berry’s Dad in Pennsylvania, just the rhythm of the train ain ain. Scratching circles on the tracks, the backs of tracks the backsof tracks. What was that sachet your Mom put in my suitcase, lemonwood, lemonweed, No, dummy, verbena. Whirring the wheels, scratching the tracks. I want to go to the front of the train, c’mon Berry, and then we’ll see the back of the train when it curves around a hill. What are these hills, Berry—Berry, why are the wheels so loud? I don’t like that the trains so loud and I’m too old to be so scared. Don’t sleep now, Berry, how can you sleep, the seat is scratching my ear. Isn’t it scratchy, isn’t it, how can you sleep? I’m scared but I should, too. Will, too. Sleep even with the scratchy seat and all the wheels so loud. Sleep until there’s Berry’s Dad and then the farm in Pennsylvania where there’s spotted cows that make the cream for ice cream. I cecream I won’t be scared I want to go to sleep away from the wheels and the scratching sound round and round and loud and loud. Shut my eyes so I don’t see the dark.
next, 24 September
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The Nature of Things 