Joan Margarit

I am sleeping with you and I hear the trains go by.
Lights from windows cross my forehead
ripping the dark blue velvet of this night.
The period of silence leaves me with a red light,
the note on a stave of dark and shining
cables and rails. I am sleeping with you
and I hear how they fade away with the saddest of sounds.
Perhaps I was wrong not to have boarded one of them.
Perhaps the last and best choice is—my arms around you—
to let the trains go by in the night.