Night was next. At some point

On the train, the outside dissolved

And she was sitting next to herself in a seat.
In a two-tone gray and blue

Vinyl seat with hints of a previous sitter.

The dim other she'd tried so hard to revive
But failed was staring back at her

Through grit and dirt glass.

These are my footprints, she said,
To her feet (Mary Jo's in Mary Janes)

which were sitting on the floor, one next to the other,

Nullifying notions of wholeness.
The absurd road had been obliterated

And all of the moment was inside.

The body buried in time. A fickle list of numbers.
Sleep was the utopian fantasy

She wished she could fall into.

Eye to the window, to fate.
Feeling but not seeing. Out there was absence

And presence. Out there was a row

Of everything she remembered.