becomes lace in veined stone,
and the hum of the engine
is a voice you could dance with,
take the track you would have taken
if she hadn’t been inside the station.
This is the moment you will most love her,
when the coat she carried meant nothing to you,
when there was still time to turn from that smell of chiffon
to another silhouette in brown or black
with a smile you couldn’t place
whistling silent on the platform
behind your back.