A FEW HUNDRED KILOMETERS ❋ Graeme Bezanson

Give us seltzer Berlitz
asked. There is no
seltzer the woman with
the cart said and
for some reason became
offended. The train
sped on through
undifferentiated grey.
On the second night my whole
face was three weeks long and
three weeks wide. What if
there were a giant thumb
pressing down on everything
a woman asked out loud but
probably not to everyone.
The long white curtain
of the Alps was next until
in Trieste we ate
sturgeon and sat on
low chairs still able to hear
Mona who’d adorned herself
in silver that time in spring
outside shouting sarcastic
things at the clouds. Jon
came with his dagger-like
beard and announced seeing
a sailor collapse on shore
crying out My keys My keys
and clutching at his
neckerchief. There were
bells pealing faintly and no
cannon smoke drifted
across the water. Jon tried
smoothing his wrinkled trousers
and apologized once more
for the rain. Actually you should
assume he was constantly
apologizing for the rain
and while it’s true everything
seemed beaten-down and
flatter did it make any
difference as we rushed by it
sliding and sliding and sliding—