Disperse In Reverse

Nostalgic for the present-time.
Strangely, this very moment,
washed-out color,
light and dark, blare and eclipse
beyond recognition,
symptomatic of neglect.
It is a remnant self
in remnant surroundings,
the rest having taken flight
or succumbed to the tug
and allure of place-names
that seem greater than my own,
or to the tectonic grind
between agoraphobic spaces
and claustrophobic confines.

Retrieve the scatter, call it home.

Keene

Hurry, you may miss

the train.

You hate to wait

among passengers

and be reminded you

are one, must yet be.

You toss your smoke to the street.

You forgot to gather up the things

that fill suitcases on this platform

on every platform—

I dig from your jeans

a lighter, a slim wallet, not even a receipt

Of the shadows you reconcile against the real things—

bourbon, bottles, the secrets of your genes

tossed to the laundry with the boxers you wore,

called clean.

Your life is an unseen to you

as mine is to me—

I held you just the same.

I know that

from moving

windows for miles

you steel yourself to

solace, steal

a fleeting peace

to pour on your

parched, restless lips,

to summon the night

and your distant dreams.