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