Acela

The passenger cars click south
on the mountain’s feet, serpent
the Hudson’s length like words
in a poem you love but won’t
ever show me. We watch
the leaves flare out again.
My mind dresses towns in flags
full of stars, slim-motored
vehicles, men I won’t meet. I
open: a linnet brushes the glass,
light attempts to enter the skull
or leave it. Soon, your body
will set out for dog-eared
maples, alpenglow.