I Doubt They Would Notice the Mustachioed Man’s Wife
–John Ashbery
How you carry yourself in
the train station says a lot
about the Constitution what
it lets you experience in
the eyes of the engineers
and how one day you may
believe it necessary to board
the express out of town
you tell no one and in this
you take your freedom
you take a cold sandwich
from the thin man pushing
his cart down the aisle outside
the trees impress the darkness
of the train as you pass
into the middle of America
so much change rattles
around in your head you know
you cannot sleep you
know sleep is for those
on slower land around their heads
it is morning the alarms
have yet to sound this pleases
you the trains are moving swiftly
at their destinations
You Meet Someone and Later You Meet Their Dancing and You Have to Start Again
–Heather Christle
You meet someone and inside of them
you know there swells
a small country brimming
with steel and beasts of labor.
You love the country
and so you fear it.
Its flora fascinates you.
You wish to visit, though
you worry you won’t
wear the right clothes, that you’ll fail
to order a drink, ask directions,
assure the clerk in the flower
shop you aren’t a thief.
They’re only roses. They remind you
of the one you love.
Even with your eyes closed
in your own mouth you’d know
they’re roses.