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.


Previous                                                                                                                                                                                                             Next