In arrival

7.11.15

Como

The brakes' lurch
wakes me.  I can't sleep
where I'm meant to this week.
White sheets aglow

wrap gold men in the near bunks.
Rhythm of time hums
urgent near the precipice.
The old world where I've been captive,

was captive,
looms.

     Then the tender baritone of the Trenitalia robot
comes like rain, I know every word,

in arrivo,
every nuance of translation.

The day I left home, the first lilac
burst in the front yard.  At last!
They are always a brief magic.
I ran to it, anguished—

how unfair, only the day.