The woman sitting opposite me
on the subway is young enough
that lack of sleep can still pale and soften
her face like a child’s. Her black violin
case rests upright on the floor between her legs,
looking like the most expensive thing
about her, with her corduroys balding
at the knees, the navy-surplus pea coat,
the stretched and pilling winter scarf.
A music score, encased in plastic, is open
on her lap. She glances down, her eyes taking
in one passage at a time, then closing—shell
pink eyelids trembling as though gently disturbed
by the outermost edge of an incoming tide.
On another day, an old actor sits
with his script in its three-ring black binder,
the highlighted lines plentiful enough
that he must have a decent supporting
role. His leather jacket dates back forty
years, at least, worn in freckles to the hide,
his Oxford scarf flung rakishly, leaving
his neck bare. He, too, looks down carefully
and then up, snapping his eyes shut, mouth
shaping silent sounds. The soft folds of his throat
ripple, as if words are pebbles and memory
water. One way or another, we mark
the things we love, like channels with buoys, trails
with blazes on trees, days with hours, bodies with stones.