Bordeaux to Biarritz

Bordeaux to Biarritz

I am chasing these trains and clouds

like little kids do,

the fright of loosing something in the distance,

bird tails,

sunlight,

traces of sky,

people.

Clouds are like the ghostly tails of gold fish

lingering-

caught fingerprints on the glass,

waving transparent

against the stillness of the sky,

and the carcasses of old citrons

lie abandoned like the husks

of cicadas in summer.

Roads meet and diverge

and tunnels give way to

scattering swallows,

as I continue chasing:

these woven phone lines,

these empty train stations,

until the train breaks off,

and I stare out the back door

at the passing tracks.