The lights of the train
trouble through the dark,
breaking south across
rice paddies and overpasses.
In the fields cricket-sound
eagers into the wedge of wind
and widens itself around you
like a parade. You leave out
details when your friends remark
on distances and climates
and their collision. It is easier
to believe in local definitions:
a lunar elevation borrowing light
and angry with low-smog above
the threshold of apartment buildings
and neon advertisements.
Perhaps, that it is easier to be alone.
At one time you were able to measure
your love for another as restless.
Joslyn standing on her toes
to kiss you, the rope of her clavicle
drawn as she minced rosemary
on a stained cutting board.
Behind you now an empty room
waits like a beaten dog for you
to return, offering nothing
but its company. You stop and turn
and the topic of stars are meager,
dull with their observations
of the day-to-day. Another train
plummets down its steel, this time
north toward bamboo laddered hills.
You follow, slowly, back.
JORDAN MOUNTEER is a self-professed nomad-poet who enjoys hitch-hiking, camping, and communal dinners. His work has been published in The Malahat Review, The Antigonish Review, Arc, Prairie Schooner, Grain. Most recently his poems have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Existere, and PRISM international where he won the 2014 Poetry Prize. He is currently in South East Asia somewhere. Probably writing werewolf romance novels to pay the bills.