Seated at the edge of a riverless ravine,
we watch a procession of trains
stream under a vaulting tunnel
with the malaise of tired vandals
admiring destruction.
The shadowy reds of a low-crawling fog
flush trackside pools of brown water
and flood into our breath. Like a sea, cigar-smoke
swims among the tender ankles of trees
recalling a restless harbor
that we know but will never see.
I speak to you like a nude child
spewing founts of verse
into the drains of rail station and canal
while your palm traverses my spine
like the breathless engines
that roll on below us.
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