I’m not sure
whether I’ve really captured
just how black the train looked or how
that blended with the darkness of the clearest
nighttime sky
one can get in a city,

or the way the particular Rachmaninov
played with my memories of singing in choir,
or the way the pieces I sang in church
really shined for me tonight,
even before all this.

So much tends to fall away,
when one tries to put something
into words.

I called my friend. Her phone
was off. Discouraged, I drive home.

Far away, she sings alone. Her voice
occludes, perhaps, her ringing phone,
or maybe I killed it, the spirit
that carries affection between those
who life has carried apart.

I turn onto the highway. The curve
reveals a house, faintly blue
with Christmas lights. Another glance
reveals my error – it’s a train, the shine
my headlights on the engine, darkened
by reflection. I come parallel, and pull ahead
as the Rachmaninov on the radio pulls past its climax,
the choir fading, the vision left behind.