Greg Williamson(b. 1964)
Outbound
We live life forwards and think about it backwards
We passengers ride backward on the train
And train our eyes on what has passed us by.
A cobalt blur composes
Into a woman picking roses,
Who is already fading in the pane
As in the failing hindsight of the eye.
A line of oaks comes into focus, fades,
Supplanted by the double-dagger poles
Of power companies,
Footnotes that redefine the trees.
An asterisk in glass, then window shades,
Graffiti, billboards, tattered banderoles 0long scrolls
Of southbound birds. . . . Whatever comes to view
Corrects the view, but never will explain
The random next event
O r a n y t h i n g but w h e r e w e w e n t ,
W h e r e l o n g ago a w o m a n w e a r i n g b l u e
B e g a n f o r g e t t i n g s o m e o n e on a train.