THE TRAIN IS LATE BY SEVERAL YEARS



no one on the winter beach
I slap my hand against the pier
seagulls raise their heads to a creamy sky

grid of stars
hunched grey figure under branches
empty garden swing still moving

it has come to this
masturbating into the sink
stared at from the mirror

I am done, quite
like a toad with its eyes
popped out by a child

curled up like a fish on a platform bench
the train is late by several years
this morning I forgot to kiss your lips