Just now, it is winter,
trees are sudden and bare-boned,
the world is hyphenated with
someone-else-is-alive sounds

on this night. A bird doesn’t
sleep. I hear my train for the coast
a distance away, anywhere. I
wait on a compartment hurling

itself at my future – a place and
a time written in pale green chalk
on a wall in a deserted train
station. I’m sure, in this moment,

of uncertainties like trains, like
a bed traveling at the speed of
night, that tomorrow will come
sudden and entire, that I must
be stone-written somewhere.