That
waking was the dream of our departure.
Too
much concerned with recording the things
Of
this world, an arc that emerged only after
Like
a star, we must be elsewhere as affixed
In
a travel diary, the ink not yet dry before it is
Time
again to go down to the station
In
the early morning the season has
Its
fogs still coming up from the river
And
they accompany us, taking the globes
Of
streetlights like a marmalade’s bits
Of
rind or line of snifters in a toast:
Adieu, tchau,
tchuss, a pleasant journey,
Already
sentimental but with a kind of weariness
That
will seem on further reading not the mark
Of
bad faith, but like the sad smile of a friend
Who
knows us already too well
That
waking us, the scene of our departure
Too
much concerned with recording the thing
This
world, an ark that emerged only after
As
a travel diary, the ink not yet dry, is.
