No, I do not believe it I say, I tell my son, my daughter,
I have no belief in the supernatural regardless the libraries
and visionaries, the orgasms of the souls of the chaste.
I see, I see here from this train the building site before sunrise
as the winter is almost at its darkest, I see the builders
there in every room or potential room as the train slowly heaves itself
from the station in the hope of acceleration, they flicker slowly
if there is such a thing, lit by electric bulbs hung in cages
as the builders have no ceiling lights to see by. The cages are slung
from a single thick cord running through this building’s skeleton,
although maybe upstairs has a different line of charge, I see
the builders reaching up, bending down, pressing metal to the walls
in staccato repeat, they pass me and I them, windows on tableau
to be viewed each day, work days only, they may do overtime
on a Saturday but I do not, I don’t need to see them then though
to believe that they are there.