Our eyes collide, like the trains stopped side by side
at Belmont station; and I gaze across
the glazed interstice, the windowpane
of wind and pain, and watch with wantless eyes
the foreign worlds through the utter divide:
lives plunging perfectly into my past,
a parity of ruins, and the moss
marauding where the gaps reveal true skies.
I gaze across, and our eyes contain
so much, so hurtful heartmuch, that they slide
around each other’s in a null refrain.
Stare and push. The wind. The pain. Flickers on
the real inside, exposed the protoplast
of person, a strange embrace the face denies.
Doors close, and eyes avert. The train is gone.