Station

The station circles above the sky
way up high past the blue ozone fizz
at night the station crosses half-remembered constellations
the curled warrior by the chest of mahogany drawers
with the giant’s hair in her mouth
the one-eared dog asleep by the shepherd’s sword.
In the galley they’ll be singing the names of capitals
Accra, Addis Ababa, Amsterdam, Apia.
Loose spoons turn cartwheels above my head.
To sleep they harness themselves to walls
and dream of sprinkled lawns and tom-tom drums.
On the station they’ll be singing
She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes
She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.