partly because she loves him
she holds her tongue
as she watches two geese
honking northwards, past Fleetwood Station
and wishes he would clasp her hand again
in his, warming it, this chill
Spring evening as
another train glides south
the rectangles of light punctuated
by the visages of travellers trying
to reach their own ends, folding and
unfolding their newspapers, grappling
with glossy magazines, and she,
she nurses an ache, a knot, so
thickcorded to her middle it never
will be born, her phantom child, a second self,
her love, her lost one, cherished
for so long, so well, it is nearly named,
but yet a chimera, glistering in the
dark, then gone
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