Synesthesia

At first, a pacific zephyr catching fire
At the point where Plato swore life ended-
Before flinching to the Atlantic
In a trade wind of veneration,
Where blue becomes white, like rebirth.

Retrieval, convalescence, synesthesia.
Now you come to me as an old sound
At dusk on a deserted station bench,
Service announcements declaring delays
And you there, just as you were then:

A perfect stranger asking for a light,
Your cheyenne red cigar sparking to life
And tinting your cheek a sunset red
As the ash falls and I curse transport.