Ftrain, by Paul Ford

                I bring my GI Orient and Paul, 4,
his dubbed cartoon of Saturday morn-
ing monsters in outer space yet
he hasn’t much to lose as I
                exclude Sigmund’s and Carl’s
inner-space hardware store cause
                                the
play opens with the father discovering this great peach in a stream,
                                and
once home the old couple uncover                 a baby inside as samisens bridge
my life                                 in sound back to a small dim room of a
Tokyo club where a guy picks a tune from this white
                                baby grand and I’m in raw company
                alone then, with my girl better and worse
I’m tearing at a steak and throwing back Nip-
pon beer. Cocksure, but she’s hushing me now,
because the guy composes,                 the pale
lid floating inclined on his                 smoky progressions
                in my sliding mind
the Peach Boy has grown
up, is prowling the audience                 when from his
silk, peach light widens over                 little Paul
beautifully glow meets glow.                 Where’s the
dragon? he asks                 just so                       we’re all peach
                children, grand babies born to save
                the world, rope the ogres round.
Now the Peach Boy’s finally up to that onstage.
                The witch knifing in she’s run through
                for her trouble. It has to be to move us to
a place
                        where a far dark house and tree
                        press moon and clouds between.
                        Water spreads to us from there.
                        In the muted air and soft-lit spill
                        are all of my selves still
                        with Paul’s. We name all we see
                        and think eternally,
a lake.