a draft
there’s a deep sculpted cutting
in the train’s terrain
brick stone tunnel rough
rick racket dark
and the smell of the diesel stinks
jostling over the bridge
to the edge
to the edge of a beginning
then the night wriggles through the long carriage
no curtains on the windows to hid the dawn
we’ve come so far to get behind
to get behind to get behind
ahh
I don’t know where we’re going
she sat at the edge of the carriage
I thought she smiled
and I thought I’ll remember this
as nostalgia
click on the pigeon to home
