What Carries Us
We get on the train and sit down in the tiny compartment. We have chocolates and bread and cheese and just enough space. We have cigarettes and then not enough space. There is so much space outside. There will never be enough space.
We are a concrete blur -- a modest train with lowered shades passing under bridges gathering splinters of light through blinds -- the only directions we have pointing north, pointing towards what is already carrying us away.
I take a picture of you and your reflection in the train window as night falls. The smoke from your cigarette rises up from both the real you and the ghost you in the window. We cross into
we cross into Poland. We are not so much finding our way, as
marking our way, flinging aside buoys of our history as we try to run away from
the end of us.