Grand Central, Track 23

I forgot to tell you it's almost time to go. The sun has distilled its particular worn essence And the glittering trout is flipped on the bow. A man asks me what time it is. I don't know. I have emptied my purse and wept in the presence Of onlookers. I forgot to remember to go Before eleven, when the steely arrow Shot swimming to its underneath, tense As a stream of salmon in reverse below The laureled, relentless clocks. The sceptered row Of columns dreams one o'clock, immense, Inviolate. What time is it? I don't know. This story concerns the night I tried to go— Though many times I flopped into the silence Of orange plastic seating like onto the bow Of a lonely ship, and felt my breathing slow. The frail, retreating stand of columns prevents The clocks from telling me time and time again to go. At my feet, a glittering trout swims past the bow.