The Condemned Station

I’m skipping to meet you
At the station in the wildflowers.
You are due any minute,

Although the power is out
And my watch is frozen.
Any second now your empty trunks

And your birdcages will be left
By that mysterious porter
With tiny pale fingers

More beautiful than any other’s.
The wind chimes thwart
And the bullfrogs’ belly –

O June, o June, I’m coming,
I’m marching to meet you.
And hark! The illusory whistle.