The slow line

One could choose the onward journey

for speed and precision, but

the return might still be on the slow line.

A return for documented identities and paraphernalia,

however temporary.

And then one might see

the sunburst of oranges on every house tree,

the peeling paint of Ovar and the shine of Cacia

as a return north from the sweet Aveiro is ordained.

One must stop at Espinho for the mirth

that beauty brings.

    This is where one will find her

    face between the handrails,

    mouth from which words flow sweeter than the pastels.

    This is also where one will lose her -

    the girl with sixteen zones in her head, from each of which

    a braid cascades time

    to bring us all to this moment.

She will not be alone, though.

Her friend with a scar from his lips down to his chin will

half carry her bag and fully embrace her laughter that escapes the gap of her front teeth.

One can face the other now -

one easy with loss, other worried about finding.

The ticket collector will be gentle in the tilt of his hat -

he knows this return is just a perturbation to the onward march,

an ox-bow lake.