He ties fresh knots in old silk. He spells names
in an alphabet he can’t remember.
This awkward business matters to someone
whose face is out of reach of the mirror.
His fingers work. They think he plays a game,
these commuters. They will never get where
they mean to go. The silent train just runs
through each dull stop. Nothing’s close, nothing’s near.
He mutters words that aren’t even plain
to him, but hold their dusty power.
Each knot, each fragile slip of silk becomes
something he fears—a pure, perfect cipher
his mother would decode, except the grave’s
her home. He can’t pull an answer from there.
He’s alone on a train. His work isn’t done.
He’ll never make this language go clear.