THE STATION

In memory of Guillaume Apollinaire
It rains continually in my sleep
my dream fills with mud
the place is dark
and I’m waiting for a train
the station master is picking daisies
that have sprouted on the rails
as it’s been a long time since
any train has arrived at this station
and suddenly the years have passed
I sit behind a window
hair and beard grown long
as if I’m very ill
and just as I’m falling asleep again
slowly she comes
holding a knife in her hand
she comes up to me carefully
and plunges it into my right eye.

The station