After I left Tom, I rented a house next to a cemetery. My mother offered to help me move. Standing in the gravel lot where I parked my car, she regarded the one-story clapboard partially hidden in ... [+]
facing forward
racing westward on rails;
every twist a next vista
the last passed pivots
sweeps past
her left shoulder
lost.
Oddly,
only as we sit still—
an hour into a restaurant meal—
where are we?
(the longest remark she can speak.)
our answer seems to appease
but did she mean:
her restlessness?
her wish to be back on the moving train?
where impression leads to impression,
where forward thrust is all?
there on the train,
she avoids
the slowing,
there on the train,
she outraces
the void.