>> At the end of love between a man and a woman, I think it's especially hard when one
of the two people goes on loving and the other cannot go on loving.
This next poem is called Station.
He is leaving the front end of the calendar, green moss in his mouth.
He is cold.
She is leaving the back end of the calendar for the station, hot coals in her eyes.
Dead leaves, dreams of dead leaves and pitbull sleeps all the way,
he sees her through the sweating window.
Which branch has pinned him?
Why are the isles slick with melting snow?
Somewhere in Phoenix, their metaphors cross.
No room among the numerals for hot moss or cold crystals.
Every window she opened, he would close.
Every switch she touched, he changed back.
Alone in Flagstaff, her heart, a warm ruby in an ice [inaudible] chest, tight, hot, room.
Their snow.