\"Backward Carriage, Early Draft of a Life\"
The train shudders
through a corridor of fields,
windows flicking past barns, pylons,
a rusted ute half‑sunk in grass.
I sit face against the direction of travel,
watching the day unspool behind me,
towns shrinking
into small, forgettable shapes.
A few old choices drift up,
passing sensations,
random impressions
things that just happened
when I wasn’t paying attention.
The carriage rocks.
Someone coughs.
A suitcase thuds against metal.
Symbolic of something vague,
the world doing what it does.
A bend in the track reveals
a cluster of houses
I once thought I’d never leave.
Their roofs look smaller now,
paint bleached by years
I never bothered counting.
I try to picture the version of myself
that walked those streets,
but the image won’t settle
—it flickers,
then dissolves into the passing scrub.
The train slows near a siding,
gravel kicking up under the wheels.
A dog trots along the fence line,
keeping pace for a moment
before drifting off toward the sheds.
I breathe in the diesel‑warm air,
searching for lack of meaning,
half-expected revelations
—the motion lets me sigh
carry me backward
to wherever this line ends.
.