I
The room could be this
quiet, I’ve waited
months for the world
to be this quiet.
I’ve an umbrella with
a broken cage.
In the wind it whirls.
It gives cool delight.
The lipped clear glass
reflects sun rays.
I remain awake
and will not hide.
II
I would take the rails
to where visible mountains
slip away and the clouds
of evening darken, soar—
pocketed by the night.
The lights of hillside huts
speak of the strangers
unseen in their homes.
What could trouble them?
I keep going, glass
between me and the outside.
No pain can claw my heart.
Blackness, rushing, erases
all particular beauties.
The journey will end,
but tonight nothing touches—
only the sound of the rails.
Tomorrow, cast into the dawn,
I carry a suitcase into town.
