The Northeast Corridor
The bar in the commuter station steams
 like a ruin, its fourth wall open
 to the crowd and the fluttering timetables.
 In the farthest corner, the television
 crackles a torch song and a beaded gown.
 She is my favorite singer, dead when I was born.
 And I have been waiting for hours for a train,
 exhausted between connections to small cities,
 awake only in my eyes finding shelter
 in the fluttering ribbon of shadow
 around the dead woman singing on the screen.
 Exhaustion is a last line of defense
 where time either stops dead or kills you.
 It teaches you to see what your eyes see
 without questions, without the politics
 of living in one city, dying in another.
 How badly I would like to sleep now
 in the shadows beside real things or beside
 things that were real once, like the beaded gown
 on the television, like the debut
 of a song in New York in black and white
 when my parents were there. I feel sometimes
 my life was used up before I was born.
 My eyes sear backwards into my head
 to the makeshift of what I have already seen
 or heard described or dreamed about, too weary
 not to envy the world its useless outlines.
 Books of photographs of New York in the forties.
 The dark rhombus of a window of a train
 rushing past my train. The dark halo
 around the body of a woman I love
 from something much farther than a distance.
 The world is insatiable. It takes your legs off,
 it takes your arms and parades in front of you
 such wonderful things, such pictures of warm houses
 trellised along the sides with green so deep
 it is like black air, only transparent,
 of women singing, of trains of lithium
 on the awakening body of a landscape
 or across the backdrop of an old city
 steaming and high-shouldered as the nineteen-forties.
 The world exhausts everything except my eyes
 because it is a long walk to the world
 begun before I was born. In the far corner
 the dead woman bows off stage. The television   
 crumples into a white dot as the last
 train of the evening, my train, is announced.
 I lived in one place. I want to die in another.
                
                    
                        “The Northeast Corridor,” by Donald Revell from New Dark Ages (Wesleyan University Press, 1990). © 1990 by Donald Revell and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press, www.wesleyan.edu/wespress.
                    
                
            
                                                
                        
                            
                    
                        Source:
                        New Dark Ages
                                                                                                                                                                    (Wesleyan University Press, 1990)