A girl stood in the doorwell. 
            Our car was nearly empty. 
There was an old drunk 
            with a nervous eye  
 
pacing up and down the aisles. 
            He lifted pages of newspaper 
and rested them again
            on other seats, the way one
 
might do with holy text,
            kissing each. The girl 
reminded me of you. 
            A single note rose, a horn after
 
some stranger has died. The ancient 
            poet Li Po wrote so many,
in his old age he would go 
            down to the river with a sheaf
 
and fold each page—the verse exact, 
            complete as nature itself— 
into little paper boats. He placed 
            each of them on the streams 
 
where he lived, until they sailed 
            from sight. And what I want
to say is that I remember you,
            even while I am going away.
 
Above us, sparks shower 
            from the messenger wire. 
Petals of light fall 
            to blossom on the tracks.