From the bridge we stare down at the track, searchingthe arch, where rails curve out of darkness. You lift meon your shoulders and we balance in white light, the dead centerapproaching. The whistle blows, a rumble climbsthrough the bones of your feet, through your legs and hands into mine,
your right hand clenches my right,your left hand clenches my left,if this were 1942, my hands would be the handleof your suitcase and your purple book scriptedin prayer. Torn from family, you board a boxcar, snap open
your case, set your brush and ink to the right,stones to the left, paint your own sea an…