Hanging in the Spaces

    now a shy greyhound sleeping
    in the crook of my surprised arm
    gentle we are, cradling the edge of daylight
    savings time
    we are in that hour
    that everyone "gains" --
    earlier, before time poised
    to throw itself at winter (trusting winter
    to be there when it landed) I drove staring
    the moon half full, all golden,
    watching me round every curve, 
    every cloud --
    raccoons everywhere staring through bushes --
    eyes glowing like quarters on sidewalks
    sudden flashes of reflection at me and me
    throwing myself on the brake, startled
    behind headlights.  I tried to count them, looking for you.
    behind their masks
    their eyes shining, revealing them and I
    kept expecting your shining
    eyes to reveal you to me in my light
    too much dark
    you, light me.

    I wonder what you remember
    as the clouds settle themselves like hens
    around your winter tent
    (too many words create mist
    in the valleys) a half moon through clouds
    walking the hills the whole sky collecting
    the light of the moon and one farmhouse,
    the trains (have the trains always been there in love?)
    always with you they were contained
    freedom, hollow prairie
    loneliness.  we put our arms around (last
    spring) one another, listening to the train --
    looking skyward, Orion dipping
    slowly; our train, every night, appeared in a grove
    of trees, its light only in the orchard
    blazing its hello and farewell all
    in one sweeping rush:
    gone again.  pulling its light away from
    our faces, though upturned, no longer reflect
    its headlight, the moon reclaiming its role.

    now, not wanting to move, to betray
    the trust of the trembling
    greyhound delicate
    chin on my wrist I
    realize looking for you I was wrong
    waiting for that raccoon flash, realize
    you were always the train.  I never saw
    that your light came once, grew brighter
    as we grew closer and suddenly you pulled
    your light back and flew past me
    off into the misty night again.  only now, hesitating on the ledge,
    fearing that daylight savings
    is moonlight's loss; knowing the clouds
    come from too much warm, only
    now can I see this truth: I've been standing
    in this grove a long time; watched your light
    turn away from me, leave,
    my moonlight steady watching your lost prairie
    train flight and I have loved your echoes too long.

31 October 99
Painting Studio