On my way

Excuse me sir, how long

till Central Station?


Thirty. Five. Minutes. 

Thirty five. Another hour

Or day springs open abyss

Before me, that is, before us

Before I can rest my hand on your shoulder


And pretend not to expect you there

Or you me.

These minutes are unlike any other

Minute I’ve known on earth

They are viscous, solid,

They stick

To the fabric of my sleeves when I turn

To watch the country you inhabit.

Longing clothed me for days that bled

Into weeks but really it was so little

Really barely a handful

Can turn me into this:

I dance on tiptoes on the wagon,

I launch my body from the roof

while strange landscapes whizz past

In a blur like you’ve been

Like you’re in me now

Like I wonder who you’re going to be now

Or in a few increasingly thickening minutes.

Eroticexpectationpublic transporttime

◄ lovesick

Bird poem n.3 ►


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