The Lost Language of Trains Those who can hear the lost language of trains, who almost understand it, wake some nights to flooded turntables and torn-up sidings in birch-woods doomed to redevelopment. But they believe in the smoke in a brasserie mirror reflecting the paintings of Paul Delvaux, in black trains stealing at dusk through abandoned stations where the lately departed drink to the night, to the night. Have they lingered too long, these believers, an eye on the signals, an ear for the marshalling-yards where trains are rehearsing vast chords of farewell? Smoke fills the doorway and dissolves, and silence follows where language has gone. Have they listened too long? Does it matter? Yours in Haste What time do I call this? Time enough to kill the suitors, hang the housemaids, dig the faithful dog a hole (I didn’t want to wake you) and make ready to depart. ...