window seat facing forward racing westward on rails; every twist a next vista the last passed pivots sweeps past her left shoulder lost.       Oddly, only as we sit still— an hour into a restaurant meal— where are we? (the longest remark she can speak.) our answer seems to appease but did she mean: her restlessness? her wish to be back on the moving train? where impression leads to impression, where forward thrust is all? there on the train, she avoids the slowing, there on the train, she outraces the void.