Backwards on a Train

Somewhere in the Lake District,
mountains comb cumulus clouds
into a frizzy mass.
Pigtail-like wisps use branches as tongs, releasing in gentle curls.


I vomit in the tiny,
too-hot toilet cubicle;
diagnose myself with synesthesia or
some anxiety disorder.


There is relief
in the trolley passing through
the carriage,
the attendant calling me ‘dear’ as he hands me a copy of ‘Cosmopolitan’.


I read an article about
nightclubs in Ibiza,
glance at glossy photographs
of silhouettes dancing
on sand left sodden
by backward waves.




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