Ftrain, by Paul Ford

An old car waits
in the terrific sun.

We turn away
a moment
to adjust

our shapeless clothes
                and stand
                for it, the
                camera,

dreaming and haste
in our mouths.

We want no part of it now, this ferocity
of self. We have terror in our mouths.

The wind blows stinging grit.
                              Where
is it from?                               We
must find out.
It is not history,
It is not photographs.