In Vienna the young

woman kicks at a fence at the station, waiting

to catch a train out of the world. Digital sign says no train's due.

Out of the world or out of the mind?

On this weak-lamped morning, I watch

the woman kick the fence, which, after a fit of

persistence, falls. What loveliness

increases, what passes, what woman

now standing on tracks staring down

the train. Blazed light.

She is too far for anyone to reach her.

Is it like picking up an instrument and beginning to play.

Is it like a smattering of false similes, fooling foreignness into feeling familiar.

Man on his back hugs guitar like a lover,

but will not play a note.

The woman makes no more noise.

In creased hills, rubbled grass,

in rocks scattered like blades,

I see the country I'm from,

though I'm so far nowhere

nearer. No nearer death,

no passing train. The world's

stealing all the leaves again, leaving

notes in a language I don't read.

Because this fence guards nothing

but dark weeds and smashed glass

this morning I have kicked it down. The digital sign

says nothing's coming.

No time to count down.