Leaving Kanchanaburi

You remember me leaving, boarding that train

the third-class clickety-clack train

snaking its way out from the depths

of your fragile province.


Raindrops helplessly clinging on the train window

Lotuses frantically moving upon the rain’s

coming, and as the train pulls into

a halt, station after station,

ominous sounds of wheels

brushing past the



called me back in a strange language

and I had no voice on my own

no hasty, curt reply

to say goodbye.


Kanchanaburi, I watched you with love

as I left you in the gray hours

to meetBangkok’s setting sun

yellow and attenuated.