I.
She will wear the garlands
of long sought after train rides with you,
your late scuttle, hat in hand.
Panting strides stretched long across a private horizon.
Yet your haste will slip short:
arrows parted into splinters, paralleled, and never met.
And, seeing this, parts of her face
will smash themselves white
against fingered transoms
of half-filled,
two-person passenger cars.
Opportunity will sag, dragging length-wise
as space recoils you in size.
She only will long then
to see your turn, your sudden slightness
of recognition.
II.
Sufficient grief will lull the tracks
as wheels thrust further
toward an illusory Oneness with
Something Else.
And she, a hand full of coins,
will crumble to clatter,
and suddenly starve:
“Feed me the east;
I’ve curry in my blood.”
The tawny waiter smiling,
receding,
bowing into his rumbling corridor.
As beside her
inert windows unravel some spool
of exquisite scapes.
In a list
Comments
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I love the way you handled the imagery in this of everything around her, him, the tracks, the horizon, windows...so creative, this is excellent, Jen, it's always a pleasure to read your poems
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Thank you, Tara.
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Thanks for the floral applause, Zayra.
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Such magnificence...
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Glad you enjoyed it, Wanda.
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