You didn’t dream her, you who are slowly climbing aboard a locomotive, being watched, so you feel, by whom? The needling press and burn of eyes on your back, itchy hot collar, you scratch, you cough, you take a page from Orpheus, turn back—no one there—you continue boarding the locomotive, the year advertising itself as 1923, but really, you know….

   You didn’t dream her, negative space encompassing worlds within worlds … even now it’s hard to fathom the depths as you tentatively make your way to your seat, foot clumsily thumping the maroon valise of the woman seated in AB, you are AA—excuse me, I’m sorry, you say and smile—AB smiles back—it’s okay…. In your seat, you settle in, consider the long distance ahead, it’s good to finally be in your seat, settled, yes a long distance ahead, you will be even more comfortable when you take your overcoat off, but you will wait, not wanting to disturb the lady in AB, not so soon after….

   You could not have dreamed her, the scent of perfume modeling its tiny stabs therefore olfactory demands—take notice—so you close your eyes, inhale, the immediacy of sweet pangs overlaid with the memory of faraway wife, which compels you to look out the window (your eyes still closed): tall grass, chapped woodsheds, reigning billboards, towers of stacked tires, everything there and then gone, falling behind so fast, time as hybrid zephyr and gremlin—grass, woodsheds, billboards, tires—there and then gone and then repeated differently, same as you aboard a locomotive, 1923, Orpheus, looking back, where did she go, you find yourself dreaming

of the shadow of your hand moving across her skirted thigh, producing fear-based pleasure-chills in your fingertips, ghosts with typewriter teeth, and this lady (AB) and you (AA), find yourselves on track to a most salacious nowhere, hurtling with dewy intent across a country that no longer exists (tall grass, brown milk-freckled cows, scabbed billboards, paint-deprived fences), and in this land of honey and shadows it is her neck, new, that you are kissing … her lips, new, that you are kissing … her breasts, new, that you are kissing … her navel, new, you kissing … it is you, new, because you have slotted yourself in that nubile interstice between dreaming and not dreaming, and aboard a locomotive everything falls behind so fast fading into past, meaning you are always in regressive pursuit of distances that reject closure or attainment,

you who has found your longing a cheat code on the lips of a stranger.