WHEN I HEAR THE
TRAIN AT NIGHT
I am sable, I am gold, I sometimes don't know
what to think: there are curious phases of being.
Finding things lost again, before returned, and lost
once more. My hard has a cadence; is that the beat
I should be dancing to? In the black liquid of night,
the best sound can do is carry - the devilish meander
of everything else is cut straight by the sound of the
train. It seems always determined and sure of itself.
In the books of horticulture the ladies carry, there
is a page about midnight-blooming roses. I can
not understand a reason for that : all that passing
splendor, lost again, in a darkness of time?