Glances towards the periphery,
allowed in a fleeting moment’s
coolly lustful indiscretion,
yield the sort of haul
that fills an empty
subway-car’s lack.
Echoes of realms without function,
our separate bildungsromane,
neuter any hope of language
in those long, high rides
as it is below:
anagogy.
There is a lot that is still said
by lovers across distant seas
and by silent strangers on trains.
These messages wait
in the pink mailbox
of after-death.
Every open window,
every fantastic vista
in that celestial journey
is life reflected:
a chance to peruse
all that we wrote.
Every Monument a Marble Janus 