Station

Pools merge on the station floor,
concrete, used by the multitudes,
half-finished conversations,
exchanged glances, last-minute kisses
and hastily arranged next meetings.

A church devoted to emotion
connected with motion, the anxiety
of travel, the awkward departure,
of the self that somehow remains
in the place it has just left.

Stone floor that has hosted many footsteps
many types of footstep, been the surface
associated with beatings, of loving
caresses, of tender pressings of flesh,
of colossal crunchings of bones.

Sun soaks the entrance, and smoke
enriches a small crowd outside,
awaiting their train, plans made to return,
as the ornate station clock shifts its hands,
its digits marking a change in direction.