long back yard

This must be how we die, a Sunday train,
late afternoon, November, Basingstoke.
This must be how the heart falls out of reach
where it won’t be warmed, too many faces
at the window getting on, getting off,
while we are all always between stations
staring out at hedges in case a fox
saves us. Here’s a row of blue trampolines
in the long back yards, someone’s bath cleaner
on an inside sill; here against this glass
in front of each of us the self’s own shape
delivers a skull. Then out through the town;
an odd stark tree illuminates the dark,
the smell of leaf on stone, a reprimand.