yet another morning that person hasn't forgiven yesterday
on the platform, he and his body stand a good distance apart
the train doors before his eyes open or close, seeing him, seeing but not taking him
away. everything's fine but the same road he walks every day
has forgotten him again. oncoming air drifts awake
joins him for breakfast, once more
shoving today into his body
they haven't spoken in a long time, these days and him

that person seems to be me. another me
waiting for a train with me on the platform. another morning reduced to procedure
I carry relics of yesterday
find the body that left the house on its own a little earlier, not daring to greet it
my face so new on his face, still unused by others'
stares, like a car window aged by the mileage
we once saw continuity as comfort, comfort
as a kind of plagiarism. now he kneels
to tie a shoe that keeps coming loose he's even willing to forget
why the knot's there in the first place

anyone's been arrived by tomorrow. another set of procedures
reduced to a conclusion. another person reduced to the self in the mirror:
a wall slowly growing more difficult, a room paced smaller and smaller
rushing every day to board myself, I fear my body
fears today
has already missed my body

another morning I don't ask myself where I want to go
that person's wearing earphones, sees but can't hear me
unmoving, but growing farther and farther from me
the alarm clock wakes him and he decides to go first
proceed along paths that don't recognize him to places he still recognizes
wanting to go faster, to catch up to him faster
to catch up to but not follow after him
embrace him, but not become him
tell him that sunset isn't the most dangerous
tell him the best
best thing has yet to happen

but the next train's coming
the whistle sounds, reminds me it's almost too late
I need to pat him on the shoulder, say
I'm back. I'm back. not tell him
another morning we're still someone else