Where the Chicago symphony plays in the summer,
there is a train that runs through the grounds. Invariably,
it will toot at the softest moment.
— Andre-Michel Schub

Andre-Michel, you have it wrong.
The train is always whistling,
blurring past houses, gardens,
concert grounds, but people
have learned to turn up the music
to blend it gone. The train’s
a distant rumble in their sleep,
makes them dream of far stations,
where uniformed men stride
up and down, shouting in
a foreign language. When
the dreamer grows old enough,
he wakes suddenly,
realizing it was his own.

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