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.