The Lady On the Train
when I see you in the hall
and you see me, and our eyes fall
to other puzzles, we
do not forget the mystery.
any idle interlude
I think of you, I think of you nude,
your swaying fall of soft brown hair,
that sudden intake of breath, right there,
right where Iíd kiss you . . .
have a history now, a life together.
have run to meet you at a cafe in rainy weather
in Provence. In Taos, apres-ski,
one in the hottub but you and me,
icy magnum standing by. Vanilla
in Mississippi. The fountains in the villa,
in the springtime sun,
over the old stone wall at noon,
the white beach barefoot. Your
deliver a clear surprise,
as cold well-water in a dry throat.
have a film, of course. Youíll take the boat
Tuesday, and probably Iíll
the solitude, stay on a while,
the novel, take the air. Espresso
an open-air table mornings, maybe gesso
canvas or two for later. That sort of thing.
doubt, eventually, Iíll have a fling.
preludes to our next romance.
have explored your body so very thoroughly.
my hand under your silk gown at a party to find you,
heard you sigh wearily,
offer yourself, leaning back against the wall.
have tracked you in the dawn dew,
wet clover to the horse stall,
there, in the straw and manure and warm stink
the steaming animals, before we could quite think
be civil or wake up . . .
last we take the express on which we met,
the floor swings under our feet,
steel wheels clucking their comforting racket,
each step a dance. And you attack it
gracefully, with such a sweet
completely at ease with your multiple talents,
robe falling open and shut
open to stay,
after naked foot,
coming my wayó
get the idea.
Judi, Georgette, Marisoló
your name is, I
loved you impossibly well
a hundred lifetimes. All of those lives will die
we do, and all unknown.
have hurt no one, betrayed no one.
is our greatest grace.
will never forget your face.
will leave nothing at your stone,
at all but this.