[peom] Train to Paris

whiteman

by Willis Barnstone

In the night boat train
from Le Havre to Paris
I sit by a young woman my age
who is from Carpentras,
daughter of a Breton sculptor,
and we are heartsick
after our three hours. We know
we’ll never meet again
except she will remember
me, our hands, and I her,
though I learn in 1956,
four years after our night,
she died on a Paris street
when a car crushed her
from behind. In her grave
we are sitting cramped
but our conversations never
run out of gravity.
Down from the train of time
(I piss on time), we endure as souls
and our scandals create us
on the platform kissing.