Night Train for the Bardo of Auvers
Drawbridges over the Seine steam up and down
levitating over long fly-boats that ply the flashing
waters which all day transport oil slicks of guilt
and all night spin black whirlpools of doubt.
The approach in a glass-ceilinged boat is looking up
toward yellow frames of passing window lights
and then I am there aboard the rail coach, looking out.
The milky whorl of night folds its arm
over its face in the heart of the sky, its hurt
palm curled in, crucified with the hard sharp spike
of a single white church spire. Boiling clouds
mass along the horizon, climbing its stair
of blue mountain. A bottle-green cypress twists
in its struggle against the pull of burning stars
that wheel not far above in the cloudy sky. Breathing
smoke and black as coal, the heavy locomotive
has broken from the dark to drag its cars
along through roiling mists so thick and quick
the train appears to rush backwards
and I am given to know my suitcase has been
left on the platform back at the sad eternal station
and though I am now amazingly returned
for one like me who has tried to slice off his own
head I have been electrified with color
and among so many rows upon rows of drab lifeless bags
I can no longer say which one is my own.
