At the Station

At the Station
To A

At the station I’m hungry
if my eyes are closed
or open. A man turns around
to see who just sighed.
I sigh again (completion
I want to offer a stranger)
but now through pursed lips
as if the world’s a balloon
I’ll fill, a long flight
tantamount to what can be
remade with hunger, a sadness.
I don’t want to begin.
Yet another man runs out
right before the door shuts.
Every middle gushes toward you

still on the plane funeral-bound.
Like a stack of books
I wait for you. This alone.