Peter, a photo of the ruins of the Star Jet rollercoaster  
appeared in the paper today,  
its battered tracks  
rising out of jig-saw patterns in the surf, 
and though the accompanying article 
called it a portent of the future, 
 
it led me back to that long-ago call  
we made to you from Sweden 
as Superstorm Sandy  
barreled towards your home.  
When you picked up our call you were  
in a New Jersey theme park, 
 
waiting in line for one more wild ride  
before the early closing, and you talked  
excitedly of hairpin turns, air time moments,  
and the mountainous black clouds.  
As parents, we worried, but your joy was undeniable. 
How strange that a roller coaster  
 
appeared next morning in René Clair’s film  
in a Stockholm museum. I need to watch  
that silent masterpiece again to see how  
an ornate coffin, pulled through Paris by a camel,  
is conveyed by jump cut to the steep tracks  
of a thrill ride—call it the Dadaist  
 
Way of Death, where in the end the deceased, dressed  
as a magician, steps from the coffin. 
That evening we spoke again,  
and then I checked the everyday surrealism  
of Internet news. In Brooklyn, a single house fire  
devoured a whole block when Sandy  
 
submerged the hydrants. Streets became rivers.  
As cars were engulfed, their horns sounded the alarm.  
And there was the Star Jet coaster 
riding out the waves like some immense ghost ship. 
I wanted to see the coffin the camel had pulled.  
I wanted to see the magician step forth, unharmed.