Fleeting

it’s a constant flow

a passing junction of elbow bends

twisting and brushing one another

in the crosshatches of their currents

fingers laced on a luggage handle

or a crumpled paper ticket

a meeting place

for the in-between, an artery of

feet under knees pressed to platforms 

each wilted passerby peeling away

one by one

surrendering to a pull to or fro 

winging down with ease, settled in a vein

and now we’ve left the station

reeling and pulsing and pulling forward

always, always forward

still life scenes undo my iris with

blurred contours of peaches or portraits          

i feel as though i’ve fashioned them all,

lived them all, breathed in

a memory or two and followed them

to eden gardens or to tender beds of clay

consecrated by chiseled stone

but i’m brought back again by 

a cradled cup of cheap coffee

and john denver in the early afternoon sun

honeyed reds and rusted gold 

brushed in molasses

slowing my gaze, pulling

backwards, rarely backwards

but in that slow-down, seconds

become hours of fixation until suddenly

the hushed tongue of the train car sighs deeply

then ceases outward

it’s back bay then south capped

and before i know it my feet are carrying me

onto the red tiles, nested with them now

as i lean into the sills of another—inhale 

while i hold my breath and the sunset empties itself 

across the water and wind soaked cheeks,

patching the freckles on my nose

and flooding the concourse—exhale

as i pull my sweater off through the underpass 

but now i’m taken aback by smudged windows and 

hurried conversations 

i’m going forward again,

always forward with a steady flux

always reeling and pulsing and pulling

in a restless hum