we speak between spasms & the train compartments' throbbing
past fragmented visions of each other. if you're not sorry about
the silence, at least say you're sorry about how i moved into &
through it because of you, i say, standing underneath an ironed
cry that arches across the ceiling. but you're weighed down by
hair uncut from not loving for years & the wool scarf spiraling
around your neck. i walked through too many icicles along the
way to the train station & now i can no longer move, you say.
then you turn into green stone, tall & slender in a pool of water
running down the crack. & i see that the only thing left to do is
to push you down the railroad tracks & to walk into the cold...
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