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.

 

Andy Jackson