HENRY SHEERWATER


Silent fugue


The carriage stops and sighs and opens up.
Metal-mouth on the wall confides,
"This is it, you've arrived."

Do I walk out?
Am I clinically ejected?
How did I get here?

Platform 6, Redfern Station
mid-summer Sydney
wind north-west, 34 degrees.

What's the last remembered thing?
We said good-bye, took separate ways
and yes, that's it: I went underground.

The train sighs again,
breathing the platform back.
Polished rails and wooden sleepers quietly scream.

From the rear-most, flying window
someone flicks a burning arc
into the heat's dead weight.

Between the rails, a smoky cloud
of seeded grass tumbles
in the wake of it.

I was wrong, must go back.
I can't go anywhere
without my brothers and my sisters.