7:21am on the train tracks; brambles

have eaten through the sleepers, and 

we lay bodies to bridge the gaps. my spine

crackles, iron-hot, beneath the scree and steam-song.

there are ball joints

in my fingers. they clutch at yours, creaking

& un-oiled; we fit together poorly. rusted gears,

torn wiring. all the starving coal-drunk angels

have infested your transmission, chewed away

the sheath of you, and we spark, now,

like animals. raw. above, the roar & rush of engines,

the urgent oblivion of travellers. what must it be

to be built for purpose, poured into a mould

that fits?

you shudder. 7:24, chimes the station clock,

the delayed 7:19 to waterloo east will now depart—

it begins.

carve away, love; we were made

to be things beneath boot-treads. or if not made

then so fallen. the rust and fracture, porcelain

become home to woodlice, copper stripped from circuits—

my arm jerks, now, immobile. be strong. if wood

could last a hundred years, then so too

must spine and ribs and femur, tibia and clavicle,

the skull; the hull of you, of me. ships butchered

in the night.

7:25. pistons clank. your hand in mine

spasms, stills.

the wheels begin to turn.