On a train threading the eye of north
it is nothing to begin to collapse
the various silence the city required of me:
to find in the high notes of the brakes
the scarlet lining of a dark coat
or the single lit office on a top floor; 
to listen for the shape of a name 
through glass at a station stop;
to observe the fields of an afternoon, 
the way they chase each other down 
in the kind of blue that learned abstraction 
moons ago, how they resolve themselves 
into a love poem for no one in particular, 
written to be open, for the sake of openness, 
this night and every budding night inside.