Moment with Zagajewski

Three in the morning.
The train on a sidetrack in Somewhere, Arizona,
waiting for a slower-moving freight train
to clang past on the main track.
Here, just you and me. A cool window pane.
A cone of yellow light.
Outside the world is under a blackbird’s wing.
Inside, your poetry while the night freight passes.
For a moment, at least—the one “mortal as you or I,”
you on that side, me on this,
but even so, together. Reader and poet.
Darkness and the hidden snow of Somewhere
off the tracks, past the window’s reflection
of your book and my being, still warm and breathing,
still sharing the common tragedy
of another dying moment.