Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
JEREMY SPOHR

Tagore Variations

3
I close my eyes, waiting
for the steps I missed last night—you
walk secretly through July monsoons.

My ear low to the ground, I listen
for a steel rail’s warning. But the only
train, a boom of empty cars, clatters

through a dream its one package:
my casket, and taken to a stranger’s
funeral. The rain has swelled, already

rushed to violence and settled the dust
that you kicked up where I could’ve
followed. In this city of new houses

the shutters have closed, and I look
for candles. Don’t let us pass alone
through these streets—my door opens

to the quieter vigil. If she whom I love
and want not to love comes over, you’ll
come with her—you always do,

though I’ve trouble seeing you there.
In downpours, I squint to sharpen
lines between myself and the passersby

who run for cover. And tonight, this
blurred loneliness, her jeweled face, runs
through the masks a city shares.