It was a face I knew I’d never see again.
The only time its leaves had blown across my view
was through the window of another endless train
which, in the opposite direction, crowly flew.
No answer came when, nonplussed, I had wondered why
those eyes — of all the others in this realm today —
should penetrate the weathered piercingness of my
disguised delight and throw me into disarray.
And then I saw her tender hands pressed on the glass:
her face which (puzzled) followed mine till seen no more.
Why would she want a man who travels pirate-class —
our lives spent on a train stuck in a corridor?
I was a blaze which burned for seconds through her why.
She was a breeze which passed across my broken sky.
© Alan Morrison, 2013