After Eliot

The slow train from Wimbledon.
Dull eyes stare with listless intent Paper crunch and fold
Hush, hush, screech –
And her guts spill onto the platform, her rolling birth
Separate in lives anew.
Then from Clapham to Victoria
And the vile tube chokes itself awake once more.
“It’s rather quick you know!”
A youth fondles with hair, older than himself:
“I was so impressed” He glances -
All his hate.

The backs of buildings
And of people’s lives
Confiscating their time
Pushing them to other places
Mine now dark, now cold
Silently flickering windows

The train moves on cold clasps surround;
A fly bumping the window He can see out, he can’t go
Like our imprisonment...

Her head would sleep on his shoulder
Breath soothes his breast
He lays awake and watches.
The fly skitters down the pain, what pain
And gathers himself again.

“Victoria”
The coffin sighs and sweats out
Its burden spreading now like spilt oil or blood
The grime of another day
Folding back covers of clammy warmth
And her face seems everywhere.