You said I cut you to the quick,
when I was picturing the railway
and a train splitting bone.

Funnily, you are well enough
to post letters down the track,
all preaching atonement for crimes
other than the ones committed.

At the station, waiting for someone else I, I, I…
read, and was so afraid that your name
brought the bile up my throat.

For you, there is nostalgia,
for me, only the pavement racing up,
and I don’t think you deserve to understand.

Sometimes these trains run,
on the dull, dark track.
They glide into the unmapped fog,
being fast, and safe, and gone.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017