Leaving someone you love by taxi at night, every ordinary detail turns sharp. The speaker says the world goes slack and dead as she is pulled away, as if all life has drained out of it. She is not parting calmly; she calls out against the stars and wind, desperate to hold on. The streets rush past, one after another, wedging the beloved farther away, and the bright city lamps sting her eyes until she can no longer see his face. The night itself feels like a wound. The mood is raw and disorienting—lonely, aching, almost physically painful. A simple ride becomes a kind of grief.
The Taxi — Summary
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?