On the train

I.

 

Facing South, on a North-bound train,

From Trenton Center to New York City,

I notice, from my carriage window,

The world slipping away.

 

Power lines, overhead,

Crisscrossing, zigzagging,

Spindling, quivering,

Twirling effortlessly in black shawls –

On which pigeons

Are lost in love,

And rivers

Are saying prayers.

 

Trees, at a distance, dead

From Winter’s rebuke,

Are merely sketches of cracked branches

On which once

Autumn was asleep

And leaves

Choked on laughter.

 

Grasses, by the mouths of lakes,

Are silent, under clouds

The color of aluminum nuggets –

Packing bags, saying goodbye,

Journeying into the deepest mantle,

To perish and to die.

 

The sun, to my right,

Is a satin haze,

Clipped to the sky

That shares its postal address

With the perimeter of our galaxy.

 

Cars, on the highway,

Zipping, screeching,

Moaning, breaking,

Trundling on wheels

Older than Pearl Harbor,

Some red with blush,

Some white as fear,

Some,

The color of sunrise.

 

You, to my left,

Reading Sappho’s Ode,

Were once a friend,

Who loved

The names of my fingers,

The wrinkles on my tongue,

The wheezes of my breaths,

Till your mother died,

And you,

Addicted to heroin,

Raped my only sister.