Changing Trains

All the shops are closed now, and

although the beauty is roaring in your ears –

even so – the black moth, the traveler,

flutters on the stove in vain;

if it says a visitor is on the way, from one subway

heart to another, changing trains –

the parted lips, the catch of breath, the careless

sweep of thick and grizzled hair –

it does not say when, or how, or if

any train can stop

on the black-iced rails. It does not say how

a French princess, leaning back against the satin,

could lift her eyes and bring you back to daylight:

you – so long underground – so cold, so used

to the damp shapes of worried men

who smell of bleach and ammonia, men

with mops and buckets at their blistered knees –

No. Even if she looked, even if she did,

you are already ruined, and the day,

the day could not bear you.

in response to  "I round the corner..." in response to small stone (222)