The arrivals entering through a ritual door,
Carry no word from you, nor the headlines blank address,
Informing me unquestionably that the decision
Has slipped from us, and lies in another’s hands.
Knowing this, the few coins sheltered in my worn pocket,
Will not grow with need or survive yearning,
Our work disproves their use; a discovered hour,
A table burdened with the crossing of our talk.
The town is set, animated with secrets,
Folded into the troubled familiar;
Divided from the street by glass, found held to its traits
By our likeness, we attempt the trick, lessening distance.
An acknowledged sentence stands,
Regular as predicted, I gather my claims,
My lasting assurances, entrusting the train
To take you, and return with you unchanged.