You’re going to cry on the train
again. What city rails haven’t been
slicked with your sadness?

Charter bus, airplane, no polyester
velvet seat is safe from mascara stains,
paisley or pleather, all brine-bathed:

flecks of eyeliner like leaf debris in a fall storm,
but it’s still warm for now. Summer’s breath from
the subway stairs lifts hair matted weeping.

You were silent this time, singular rivers
streak black, change course on cheekbones—
this unexpected divergence is no metaphor.

You have at least five pretty years left. Crying
will give you wrinkles. And what fool goes into
a knife fight with a paper heart?