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>> At the end of love between a man and a
woman, I think it's especially hard when one

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of the two people goes on loving
and the other cannot go on loving.

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This next poem is called Station.

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He is leaving the front end of the
calendar, green moss in his mouth.

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He is cold.

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She is leaving the back end of the calendar
for the station, hot coals in her eyes.

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Dead leaves, dreams of dead leaves
and pitbull sleeps all the way,

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he sees her through the sweating window.

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Which branch has pinned him?

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Why are the isles slick with melting snow?

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Somewhere in Phoenix, their metaphors cross.

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No room among the numerals
for hot moss or cold crystals.

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Every window she opened, he would close.

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Every switch she touched, he changed back.

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Alone in Flagstaff, her heart, a warm ruby in
an ice [inaudible] chest, tight, hot, room.

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Their snow.