Imagination

It’s the runaway train you’re on that jumps the track.
If it’s a daytrip, it makes its own night;
if it is night, it makes the eerie light
of another world. When the train jumps back

you’re worlds away, then back home in a blink
where a distant cockpit flickers, beckoning
you to return. Meanwhile, haunted by the thing
imagined, incomplete, you think and think

till the train returns. As the brothers Wright
dreamt from their bicycle shop and invented flight,
so the Brooklyn Bridge was conceived and built. And I
imagine now and then that you might like
to walk with me to Brooklyn Heights, or bike,
or take a train, or plane, and love, or fly.