For My Sister, In Winter
To find on this cold shore, something whiter
than the sand—
from the bench, I watch you walk
to the water, see the waves foam a path towards you
and away like a small, fast train.
There are things I would have told you
if I knew them already. I sit sniffling
under my blanket while you run out
your camera battery, watch the twinkling city blend
into the ocean.
And yes, there are stars
and constellations I think
I recognize.
Sometimes at night, I look
and understand how
looking up, people once saw battles
and bears and other
people, and—
there are houses nearby too,
but you don’t film them. You stay sitting
by the breaking water, perched silently
on the snow-covered sand.
From the Metro-North
To keep, as we seldom do, the promise
of arrival. People expecting
then meeting, trained
in the rhythm of waiting.
–
At each stop, working people
model city time & press
close to the train door
before it opens.
–
Think of diegetic sound:
The conductor’s keys jostling
This train’s next stops is… those who board
& those who stay.
–
Malleable post-sleep, I grasp
at flashing, unknown towns as they fade
through my reflection
on the train window.
–
The conductor demands
a child’s fare & later searches
the train for an old woman’s wine.
Think of mercy, despite.
–
To lap & crawl & chase
the hills each day. Time
unspooling in a silver vein.
–
A ribbon of water.
A town sign. A small girl pointing
at another train.
–
Think about the moon outside, above
the train, & the people
sleeping while others avoid sleep
or take care of their rioting
infants or the next email or think
of the moon above.
–
A basketball court lit up, a night
fishbowl, as the train sweeps slowly
past—homeward bound.
