on this train, it'd be you
and we'd wonder quietly how
the compartments don't run out
of air, how we keep on
breathing and thinking each other
into existence—thinking that old
man with the tweed hat on his lap
into existence, thinking that young
girl with her forehead to the glass
into existence—while the stones
in our pockets sing a frigid
river where we will hold
ourselves under; except
I can't, because I'm afraid
of choking and the infinite black
at the bottom of things, but you,
you are brave as you lean across
the space between us to ask
me where we are going and why
it doesn't stop.
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