The train to Calcutta is full of
people in pajamas. A passing
Indian lady has hiccoughed, and the whole
train remains fragranced for an

hour. Outside, a barren landscape and a
distant church sign. I have my head
wrapped loosely inside a piece of green
and gold cloth but

my eyes can see the symbols of
betrayal from the smoke that circles his neck
and the ring that taps on the glass
when he hums a silly tune to himself.