My ear, still wet and ringing from beer-breath secrets
where I leaned to hear the tin-can submarine story -
then had to leave.  The constant tick inside my head

louder and louder since our call,
me: somewhere in the South Atlantic
you: in Milton Keynes.

Inside the black wells between the orange hiss
of sodium lights
my firework nerves crackle -

the splutter of a coffee machine
hides the arrival of the 10:43.
The scent of your lips deafen me.

Wind slices the platform like the shrill pain
of The Surgeon when he hacked at my toe-nail.
(It was one of those nights.)

Two express trains pass and we are caught in a vortex
of crisp packets and *** butts.
A tissue hat, green and damaged, floats onto the track.