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,
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.