I’ve been thinking a lot about trains lately. I don’t have a car and the way I am conveyed from one point to another has never been—save for walking—exactly in my control. This seems a good way of thinking about reading, too—it’s like boarding a train without knowing where you’ll end up or how exactly you’ll get there. As the train moves along its path, there are semaphores signaling when to brake or plow forward. Lily Brown writes as a semaphore. Through carefully constructed distance, Brown is able to signal the message that her readers will apprehend. Though distance and depth may not be easily controlled, Brown conducts them, flagging the trains into the station and breaking the formless night into a grid with windowpanes.