The inside of the carriage is the colour
of tendon and bone. Outside, the mist
has lifted and left behind the shudder
and billow of mountains, small gatherings
of brick veneers. We cruise past a fallen
shopping trolley, unsurprised. My attention
flits between greenness and ochre, belonging
and its shadow, and a warmer corner of my head
where she is waiting for me with her restless
tender hands. Deep in my right hip socket,
a dark knife. There is (I know now) only
so much time for suffering, confusion, love.
The line flattens out, the buildings close in.
But that knocking is only an empty wheelchair,
wobbling with the motion of the train.