I take my seat on the maglev train, 
stare out the window, wait for launch. 
“Look at all the graffiti. How 
do they do it—the artists, I mean? 
At night, I suppose, when 
no one’s around.” No response. 
There never is. And so I wait 
in the quiet, not for the train to launch 
(it already has), but for something else 
to say (I am here to be heard). 
In the quiet, I yield myself 
to images well suited for distraction. 
“Look at all the horses. What 
would it be like to witness a stampede? 
If we closed our eyes, would we still 
feel the movement in our bones? 
I’m feeling it now, when 
it’s not even here. Are we even here?” 
You don’t respond. You never do. 
And so I wait. And so I give 
you time to feel it too. Maybe you do.