There was a bridge for trains to cross
the deep farm ditches
with a small space for us to sit,
hang our young legs,
flick cigarette butts
into the dark
they hiss, extinguish.

You said, this
is where I come to be. Come
with me. Be
it’s best when the train comes past.
and I agree
because no one should be alone to grieve.

Split, each
down the middle.
Ditches run the lengths of us.

So we sit here, over the darkness,
over the rippling black water
where unsteady stars waver.
We wait for trains.

Smell of creosote, the bridge that
moans and bows under their passing.

It is a good thing
there are ties to hold each crossing
no matter what the weight.

The dead leave ditches
and we are tied
that the heaviness might pass over.