Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

                                      — C.D. Wright



Grateful acknowledgement is made to Oana Cambrea for the use of her digital art, Autumn (2007).



Departures



Trains, darling, make the quickest exits:
hand luggage, pearl earrings, petty cash rolled
like dough inside a pocket, your buff coat.
A pensioner doffs his hat; the sliding doors close.

I pass a gypsy suckling a newborn.
Couples play cards, share water bottles,
unzip and re-zip backpacks, rain-spattered parkas.
For a moment, I see you with another woman.

Truth is I don’t know where I’m heading.
The conductor perforates my ticket: Ferrara,
he says, is lovely this time of year. Three foreigners
approach; I take their pictures with a smile.

A student lends me her chemistry book for the journey:
you’re on every element on the periodic table.
Already I see myself outside your door reading
Apollinaire, my index finger on his words, your lips.



                         previously published in Secret Love Poems (Rubicon Press, 2007)