Sometimes
the train moves too fast
the tracks are uneven
you watch your hands tremble
ever so slightly
but enough so
you can barely hold on
to anything in reach
even trees
rooted to the core of existence
sway from timid miscalculations
of speed down the hills of France

Sometimes
death calls you by first name
comes with a handshake too soon
bows its head in trust
leads the way home faster
than the thought of being lost
along the uneven tracks
down the hills of France
where the body of beauty
waits sitting cross-legged
to hitch a ride
with anyone who knows
the way down love’s eternal road.