a wait for the Burlington Northern

a wait for the Burlington Northern We have to keep on like this, train station after midnight, dim-dusted chandeliers almost no shadows cast: the glow so slant small words illuminate more. I perch the massive arm, an oak bench one hundred years in growing, eighty more here at the Burlington Station waiting for you and the conversation. We talk of the consequential, words filling cracks between our absences. You are transitory, yawning, immediate: too clearly here, while I fade, weave reptilian on my perch, crusted eyes already seeing you gone transparent, fulfilling the next small prophecy of Burlington timetable yellow magic markered on the wall. The gaze that I give you is a parable to show how far steel rails will carry you deep within the eye ofthe next country. I wish to speak those times the wind blew right, furniture gathered round us, comfortable with our saying, our not saying: each molecule exactly balancing the other. I wish to say what will come, or whom, one figure so strong, so enticing, so inevitable no arrangement of persuasion is needed. I wish to count the stones you will put down, I wish to count the stones you will pick up: each with the promise of difference. I want to say cadence, majestic, cerulean, the comforter you will spread over the sleeping form ofNickolas, as you both rock in tight arms of a sleeping car at three A.M. Outside, night will widen to the distant bluffs ofwestern Nebraska, as quiet as frost slipcovering fenceposts beyond 209 the indivisible horizon: a silence that revives the inner ear, a silence that brings the purification of language, a whole lifetime devoted to the question. At that moment in the darkness there will be a moment of near darkness: a dim reflection on sleeping car window that tells a story to your eyes. Your hand will seek a sure sign, plunge down into that warmth between seat cushions, straight on to nothing but an antiquarian cigar band, worn soft as bluejay tuft. See, place it carefully over the finger, it fits as tightly as the afterglow of firefly, blue as tomorrow's dawn gathering like snowdrifts high above the Maroon Bells ofAspen. for one of the Ann sisters and her son Nick 12-9-91 Rex Walton Lincoln, Nebraska 210 ...