The Palace of Bones

Night Train from Barcelona

Night Train from Barcelona Now, when the basic comforts spoil—the stiff knee, The glass of melted ice, the torn shoe—they represent failure More than accident. They tear right into remembering. Outside the glass doors, the distractions— Where you started, left off, never officially ended. I settle for brief companions, the smell of each Tired stranger closing from his life. One dozes off into religion, his own round spotlight, Shining down on the Koran like a perfectly lit spirit. Others tactfully fill the space around them with fear, Wrapped-up belongings and invisible houses, half-lives. On the radio, the first landing on the moon is replayed, The conversations between Apollo and ground control; Only eighteen seconds of fuel left, but a safe, eternal landing. In front of me, a man who seems to follow me everywhere Talks of fixing clocks, Relaxing, but little profit, he says, As if he knew how to cheat us out of time. Time is in synch with the speed of the train— The sound, the climbing, the drop, the fight. Each town we pass is too gray, too stone to be real. 15 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. During the night-haze, the night-thoughts Where glamour appears out of darkness Like a permanent light, a woman, too old to have a child, Prances down the aisle with a neck-length of pearl, Again and again until she is noticed. A man, not from anywhere, grinds his teeth, As if he’d bitten through the earth, To tell us he is violent (was an unloved boy), Knows more, will hurt you if you question him. During each pause, each delay, like thieves we sway furiously As if being kept from a chance, from something perfect We have earned with the half-torn tickets in our hands. Those who gave up believing long ago, and the ones Still rehearsing, still waiting even to believe In an end to this strange loneliness, Speed toward anecdotes, a glimpse of their own histories. By the last hour, we are all sick with entire lives In our stomachs that we must carry now to another place, Willing to be lost, to be strange and estranged, To allow ourselves to live unfinished. At the end of the line, It can be read in many ways depending on who you are, The sign in the empty car that reads, “Nothing left to steal.” 16 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...