Monday, April 30, 2012

If there is a story, I don't know
Of a train that travelled into a small forgotten town
A man jumped out in fine clothes
He held a leather valise in one hand
A rolled newspaper was tightly held between his elbow and his side
The stranger to this town, walked past its buildings and dusty saloons
He walked into the woods and never returned
They found a leather valise. Nothing was inside
She wore a pretty dress
Her eyes tell us nothing more:
They were covered in darkness, like fallen black doves
This blindness that keeps us from what is her
So I think of a beauty in long golden hair
There seemed this gentleness
I wanted to touch her
Speak to her in whispers
Tell her I loved her
But I saw her only that one time
A distance as strangers; crippled afoot on fallen ground
What did I say to a pretty dress?
In all these years as blind to her as she once was to me?
I know, but I can't say
A speechless deafness strikes me
I wonder, too, if she hears me, sees me in the passing of lonely dreams

Monday, April 9, 2012

I was walking in a summer rain
I found a ticket for a bus trip far away
But the driving rain made the ink run, and washed it as a black stain
I took it to the bus driver, my last chance to escape far away
He laughed and said it was no good
I pleaded and asked what hope there was under broken clouds
The bus driver closed the door and turned round in a diesel sky
Two passengers looked at me: one fat, the other thin
Neither cared, I could feel a sinking distance from their driving eyes