|October overslept today,
then burst forth from rumpled sheets,
rumbling into foggy socks.
No time, even for cinnamon tea,
and she’s out the door in a tumble of grey oilskin,
stuffing titian locks into her Brimmer.
She rakes up breeze-webs with her passing
and I feel her moving through me
on the platform, in the rain.
The dead are riding the trains again,
reading newspapers over our shoulders
and whispering to the unattended.