Whenever sunlight touches like that time we both sat wondering too much of a sharing of intimacy, but was saved by the hand of a stranger like that but the snow was worse on a run to Warsaw at the communist countryside, where to stop, couldn’t anyway, I go, like sunlight,
In Memory
the snow, things change, shadows
of trees fall into my memory
whether to touch would be sinful
or something we might regret later,
like that lady on the train
who couldn’t find the w.c.
who guessed her plight, touched
her sleeve and pointed the way,
and the engine older,
a coal-burning black locomotive
and we were a couple of kids
watching out the window
deserted stations disfigured by drifts
that knew no bounds, didn’t know
and all of this locked in my brain now
and yours, too, I guess, wherever you go
like shadows of trees,
these things never change.
Hear it:
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