Equator

You were there
beside me
the first time
either of us crossed
the Equator.  You were
sleeping,
I think.  You were
dreaming of eternity...

The lights of the plane
smeared against the firmament
like a tear
running under
the spell of gravity.

I woke you up
to remind you
of the world.

Its limitations
inhabit us, we begin
regretting
our past immediately, our present
in the (near) future.

We will stand
equidistant
to the end of the Earth,
you to one side
me to the other--
Tropic of Capricorn
Tropic of Cancer--
waiting.  For no one
knows the week
or the day
or the hour.

No one
speaks.  In a weakened whisper,
at my death
I will say
your name
instead
of God's.

Congestion

The knot of destinations
untangled on the station wall
suggest the limitations
of the trains.  Their tracks.
parallel rails finding
the same distance
the same direction,
were lain as long lines
in a time of aspiration
by men defending hope
and wanderlust.

The rail yard is a brain,
and ganglia are waiting to move
populations and product.
Nerves know their urgency but
sometimes
ignore it. 

In the distant metropolis
where I would like to live,
the traffic is congested.  Drivers
hoarse from their frustration,
say nothing now and now cower
behind the wheel, behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is stalled on this December morning
when no one will be
going home
again.

But there are planes
and there are aeroports.
And there is the idea
of flight.  I might begin
this journey here
and through the clear blue sky--
or ink black night
or through a cloud that sweats
out rain and thunder--
I will, god willing, arrive
at the exact coordinates
at the exact time
my nerves require.