pulse.

Have you ever listened to the trains underwater?

If you stay

just still enough, you can almost feel

your heart beat in rhythm.

The water vibrates

just the tiniest bit, with

an undercurrent of soft thunder,

and the deadened silence

is an unwavering, echoing sort of harmony,

one long, endless note

just high enough to steal the air

from your lungs.

The beat of the wheels,

of the water,

you can feel it.

It’s there, it’s moving, it’s

shaking, and for a suspended moment,

you’re speeding away to

anywhere.

Then you bow your head, you will yourself upward,

pull yourself out of the water, shivering

in the damp air.

You hold your breath,

immersed

in the sudden hollowness.

A tired rumbling in the distance,

perhaps a low whistle.

Unobtrusive, far away.

Completely insignificant.

Only the quiet

around you, the white

and the water, moving restlessly

as if in the throws of a dream.

Or a memory.

A reflection, an imprint.

A beat.