From: 31 Stations: Morning Hours

1.

“love can sometimes wear the face ofviolence”

The subway doors shut—

Heavy, moist air,

August in the city.

Where I live, where I hide,

my face masquerades for hours—

a calm, cool solitude—

menace lies inside forgotten containers,

anxiety a response to thoughts,

chains, this lack of light.

Resting my face against

scratched glass,

the familiar empty station.

2.

The familiar empty station

Inside the Chekhov moment space

finally expands toward the window,

hair following and sleep, shatteringnotions

of other, it all is “other”

but also “I am”

is the dawn before language,

the visit of the mind itself

next time the cock crows,

undone by the birth of light

3.

. . . comingtoward the “Ashes of”

—accustomed as Iam to pencil

releasing a shadowfigure:

Salted water and heat in the summer,

smells of dustand rosemary—

In a skimpy bathing suit gesturing

empty handedtoward the beach,

various flagsbeat/dangers of water

The past not just “a souvenir”

The family permeates all at the station

That small girl, fists on hips, too—

Where gestures are that large