The train moves
like a thought
you cannot undo-
smooth, deliberate,
cutting through snow and time.

Silk gloves held secrets,
and eyes behind glasses
watched too closely
or not at all.

A body in cabin twelve,
still warm,
as if death had boarded quietly
and taken a seat
by the window.

The conductor said nothing.
The passengers drank tea
with trembeling hands,
each one rehearsing
a different version of the truth.

Outside,
the world vanished
into frost and fog.

Inside,
guilt traveled without luggage.

And justice-
it wore perfume,
and walked on velvet,
never rushing
to arrive.