on the first train to freedom

they told me of a gaol bird singing

‘love is just a ballast to stop these ‘ere

souls cart-wheeling off into the

empty night, do-dee-doo

dum-dee-dum…’
but on the last train out

I saw it all:

smelling the looks of lovers

who would never meet

their hidden glances

excused to be less

dead fly Milton bright

& thoughts toward action organised like

a junkyard backpacker bus

fallen into disuse

or like the errant memory of where keys

lie

while typing love letters in the dark
too many believe in the mask of next time
& as I turned away

outside my window

I felt it all:

the flowers in the cemetery

waving in the soft anhelations

of the gods
& of life breezing by.