Maybe, the girl in the green top at Cambridge station,
whose head I watched egg whisk into the crowd,
wasn't you.
On the train,
I see your face in the flat black earth.
I thread whole copses of trees through your hair
and catch a quarter breath
when a seagull dips its grey belly into the staccato stream of the train,
opens its wings as wide as a heart
and slips past.
