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Friday, November 19, 2004 Phantasms and Anchors You leaned into the cheap diner booth, and it metamorphosed into the interior of an old train, padded and warm and gleaming wood. Amber light. I was on your right, comforted by the familiarity of your arms, chest, the stubble of your unshaven chin, disquieted by the promises and retractions hanging pregnant in each syllable from your mouth. Then looking at the scene from an outsider's perspective through the window, drawn to the lamp glowing in the corner and touching feet. Hovering as the train sped by. Back in an embrace, to a pulse that was becoming home--but I didn't know if I wanted to go back. Earlier in another prognostication of this chimera, the choice was clearer--I couldn't, I had no desire. But in a season of feebly suppressed doubts and shifting shadows on the sundial, the offer seemed more enticing. However, reality offers few remedies for the advancing tide. Of the possible alternatives to pianos in dark rooms, none are wise. Permissible, but not beneficial. As they have been for months. ^ Top | 5:12 AM | | | 
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