Thursday 11 February 2010

Last train left

You were the last to leave the platform,
long after the voice with its glottal stop
soft as warm mud, clear as rattling ice
in the glass of too many drinks, told you
that you really were the last and this
train won’t come. It’s terminus locked
to rusty buffers in an endless kiss;
rails to rust, dust to dirty jacket,
winter to a spring of mists.

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