The rushing roar of a trackless train,
high-altitude white noise pushed
along the aluminum skin beside my ear,
I see head-tops, light knives lasered into
colors blue and gray, porridge of
cool hues trapped inside the white wind,
we have movement only in our imaginations
while the steward in his pageboy
serves me water with shale-ice
clanking cold scallops to chill my fires,
a judgment call,
we need peace at altitude, no passion
over icebergs and an ocean of green slush.