I travel backwards even as the rest of the train flees
in the opposite direction. The man in the opposite
seat lets a newspaper fall. We pick it up from
different journeys, fingers briefly touching. I tell
myself the earth is a sphere, the horizon is my orbit.
I will arrive where he arrives, sooner or later. Some
people traverse yesterdays better than they ford
tomorrows. The train lingers at stations. The sepia
dust dances in a light beam of failure. Mirrors still
reflect the pink regret of long ago. What if creation
had made us before it made time? What would love be
then – at this station that is both the next one and the
previous, in this moment that has passed and is still
occurring, in this vector along which I have moved and
am still waiting? I watch the man leave, the paper
under his arm, understanding and still not knowing.