But That's Not It On A Hartford Train Poem by Warren Falcon

Riding backwards
each brick is
surprise peripheral.

Gaze shapes itself
solidly

a moment then to movement
succumbs.

Again.

And I am dumb.

Strike no pose
that a poem
could love

much less linger
petulant in a
tinted window.

A brick sticks
in the throat.

No.

An eye.

No.

It is red.

It is dead
weight leaving
residue in
a palm

or place it
sighing to my
chest still
overcome by
the last

brick, and
the other
one

and so on,

all lost,
a last attempt
to see without
poses and write

it.

The heart says,

No.

The other eye,
the one turned
away from the
window, says:

'God forbid I'm
going to crash the
whole universe.

Goodbye.'

But that's not

it.