From a train, she passes how all things pass, wrapped
in their instants, messy and simple as the as-yet unlooked-at
complication, under the sign for a rail-station named Marsden –
which is like the surname of a first love, from
before I understood, like now – standing alone,
the inscrutable woman, all cheekbones
and short hair, and red polkadots rapped onto their white,
her hand raised to rest – perhaps briefly – against her cheek. Life,
for Chekhov, is neither horrible, nor happy,
but strange-unique-fleeting-beautiful-awful, according to Gerhardie
in this book I was reading before I shot by and saw the lee
of the sign for Marsden. And for me, also – and for me.
From: https://poemsinwhich.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/chekhovs-gun/
Date: 2013
By: Joey Connolly (19??- )