It's like sticking one's head out the window of the southbound night train. A rushing thunder fills the ears -- almost deafening -- and that's before the passing northbound train shears past, letting wail the whistle in one long blow. And (now) one is deaf, but the cyclone eddies shake one's flesh & rattle through one's bones so hard that one can whole body hear: one's entire skeleton vibrating like those tiny inner ear bones. It was dark before the scintillant streams of strobing light burned a void into one's picture place. There's no smelling a thing in that crossfire hurricane, but one can taste big gulps of train exhaust -- exhaust with a cotton candy consistency but foul tasting to the last bite. And then it is quiet and dark and peaceful, and it's not clear whether one is alive or dead, and it's not clear whether one cares whether one is alive or dead.
passing hazy hills,
i sway with the train,
As I recall, these mountains sat near the Willkanuta Mountains. Anyway, they lie somewhere along the road between Cuzco and Puno in the Peruvian Andes.
Are these sleepy little villages and hamlets really tucked into bed by eleven?
When my train rolls by and there is nothing on display to my bleary eye
except vacant roads, dark shadows, and the dim glow of night-lights.
Cars are still; people are absent; time is frozen but for the wind-blown hedges.
But do these villages go to sleep, or do they just turn off the lights
and do those things which should not be subjected to the light?