an angel and a saint
sit across from me on the train,
cleanly dressed,
clearly in love,
yoked,
with an unmistakable hard-crack
around the edges
that speaks phantoms of despair
and rough street,
the scritching of glass
from clandestine wine,
slowly and carefully
uncorked
against the sway,
slowly and carefully
filling the canteen,
against the long haul
of the day
ahead,
the promise and sadness
all mixed up
together
in their kiss.