Train Poem by Leslie Philibert

A carriage full of dried moths, faces sour with old leather,
a midnight softness, perhaps a glass in water, slowly,

and you speak of love in the conjunctive,
you would have liked to have known more about me,
but your heart is walled up and full of soot as

roads and fires fly past the windows, they illuminate
half of your face as you speak with care, bloodless and monotone.

You are very reasonable, so sincere, your calm voice as regular as the ticking of wheels on rails, your eyes are railway bells.
But you have a brick in your chest, love`s asthma.