Night Train From Paris To Berlin

Berlin is your friend, it said.
I turned it over and back
again. We didn't need friends
just a translator, our words
on crutches, stumbling
down the fronts of our

shirts. Practiced and practiced again
sentences, strung up like
washing lines that hung in
the air like the silence
that followed; our foreign
breaths rusting up the

clock as twelve hours
crawled on hands and knees over
bodies, carpet burned,
which curled and
uncurled, elbows in elbows in
accordance with our English

dreams. Like two centipedes
caught on their backs
we did not sleep but
carried that train until the morning,
winking through the windows of my birthday,
whispered hello.

4 thoughts on “Night Train From Paris To Berlin

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