Lay-by killings, juggernauts’ chrome jaws,
bones breaking in my parents’ nightmares.
So I never spoke about our late-night
cycles from the last train out of Boston:

you pistoning ahead of me; fog, phosphorescent,
draping a pond; baleful windows of a condemned
house; town’s name ghost-white on waterworks
brick, a trick, you’d turn and shake not yet,

tour de force feeling of wordlessly wheeling
into our dead-pulse town; cats’ shadows
jigsawed on lawns; last push up to Winter
Street; listing stoop; back gate’s groan,

grudging
home.