Trains

I tire of train station kisses,

of waiting for life on hold, but

I watch you speed away

 

from painted benches.  They

never seem to dry—

not for us,

 

but give me sleepless daylight,

my brain in the wrong language

where wind sweeps

 

folds of newsprint across

hardened droplets

I almost smear

 

luggage of endless flights,

catch my breath:

all I can send you

 

is here

the end of the platform.

Living air carves stone to sand

 

our spirits, not yet dry,

like clay beneath these planks.

I can still mold

 

a new life from here, and

I’ll play our songs

like the kiss of first rain

 

on windows too far

for my eyes.

For my hands are still

 

stained with newspaint:

my love, when do we rest?

I tire of running to

live as though already dead.

 

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