I’ve decided that she is platinum.

With one ear pressed flush against the glass

Of an express train window. The golden light

From behind frames her profile,

Edges around the contours of a cheek, a chin,

And through her hair like crossing curtains.

I have been sitting here, thinking how easily it is

To fall in love with someone on a train,

As well as how all that touches her,

The trees, hills, houses, sheep, and valleys

That disappear at her nose, and are reborn at her nape

Are catalyzed into beauty, the perfect form,

What Plato pined after,

And so do I.

The ideal realm has found the ideal door to ours.

And just like chemistry, none of her is lost

In the transferring of elements.

And all of me is lost in the transferring

Of train cars.