dirty projections

Upwards, somewhere near the
cold mountain, a moon, a fawn, 
an indistinguishable something.
Our train winds around the
coast, i try to empty the sea from
my pant pockets and coat.
A reindeer pendant is pinned to 
my lapel, across the aisle a man
is thinking about a haircut he had in the 
past, crooked curtains across his forehead,
pull them shut and his mind is lost.
I tug the scarf around my neck,
tighten the grip on my knees,
the train rolls around the
coast and the tracks stay in 
place.

Eleanor, i remember you 
more so as a time of day,
when the moon looked like a
mustache, always an ocean in
your kitchen, the sink always
filling-a hushed Russian accent
covered the table while i was
swimming, I was
s
w
i
m
m
i
n
g.

In water color paints, 
the ocean that
covered your kitchen floor. salt,
it was all coral and salt, it made
for pretty christmas presents,
tree root vessels, capsized 
carriages;

“do trains still have conductors?”
(me)

…
(everyone else)