The trains don’t run, but her stampeding mind
Goes endlessly in circles. So she sits
Out on the tracks, past words untrue, unkind,
Surrounded by a buzz that never quits —
To live, and then relive, the same few days;
To hear, and then re-hear, the same old words —
She can’t escape a world grown out of phase,
Even among the birches, and the birds.
That’s how a haunting works: within the head.
External ghosts can always be ignored,
But inner spirits go where we have fled,
A cargo that we always have aboard.
And love’s not coming back, not coming back —
The trains don’t run, but she’s still on