Tuesday, March 19, 2013

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)


The Poet's Lizard said...

So beautiful, Dale. Even if "[we] are already ruined." Ah.
Thank you.

Dale said...

Thank you dear Luisa! Yours and Seon Joon's were so wonderful, I had to write in response, even though it was evening, when I almost never write. xo