Part 36

All those things that I could never say, growing
like fangs, slashing lips and cheeks till the mouth

is a wound that no word can slip out of. I count
secrets like train carriages, standing by the tracks,

somewhere between stations, a movement of
yellow windows: light, dark, light, dark. Sometimes

a faceless face. Sometimes a handless hand. The
world going by, not curious, not asking. Do we need

a witness for every moment? For every sigh? Is it
more worthy, a life lived in the sunlight? What name

do you have for things growing in the shade? Inside
a second-class compartment, lovers lie on opposite

berths, feigning sleep. Between them space, depth,
strangers, doubts. The train gathers speed, disappears

into a fading rumble. Then comes the nothing. Then
comes the quiet. Like the day after everyone left. All

the emotions gathered in corners. Like dust. Like
teeth. An empty house like a field after the train

goes away. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. I have touched
fear. It is icy cold, metallic, like a naked railway track.