There’s a story I’ve come to believe is mine.
A man places his coat on a train, carefully
as a passenger in a seat, the man
leaves the train, the train
leaves the station and the man
is never heard of again. All I need
is a train to make it true, a coat
I’m not so in love with as mine, with its brown
and its long and its busted left pocket,
and the skill to disappear. I have a drawing
so far of a train in a winter window
in my winter breath, a cloud
I’ve worn up and down my arms
and over my back while I run in the cold
toward the forgetful horizon, and new bones,
a different me technically every
six years. I miss

Glenn Gould, living with the chance
to constantly satisfy my desire
to not meet him, his solitude a beacon
to my solitude, as sometimes
the absence of the Goldberg Variations
in this field where my footprints go
to get away from me
is a thing to listen to as intently
as I suppose sunlight is making music
of the air it warms just before it dies
upon my skin. On the other end,

a woman picks up the coat, throws it
over her shoulder and walks
toward planting it in the garden
in the spring, beside the bowl
beside the motor beside the crown beside the whisper
she put in a hole to keep it safe
from you know what happens to whispers, to life, to see
if little coats will grow from it, for of course
the little bodies arriving constantly
to this, which by the time we can tell them
we haven’t figured it out, they’re at least warm
when they’re old enough to know, that’s
what we would have told them, had we not been so busy
not figuring it out.