Train to NY. Serena Guarracino


The sound of the train is a sigh
piercing the distance.

I’m moving to the dead withering hole
around which monuments are being built.

Out of the window bush lines the track.
Cramped silver birches, gleaming
snow-white branches. Skeleton
arms and legs reaching for the sky.

From the loudspeaker the guide explains
they were taken straight out of the ruins.

Their whiteness bent, glistening
in the lame light of twilight
or dawn.