The shine of the waxing moon picks out
a sinuous spray-painted declaration
of love scrawled on the railway bridge
at Crofton Downs.

                In the sweep
of headlights, in the briefest of under-passings,
few might give the graffiti’d panels consideration,
much less the one who signalled his heart
between rivets, on rust, in white —

or notice how that white stains the steel sections,
a slow corroding into permanent scar.
For even after over-painting or chemical
scouring, ferrous skin remembers.

I imagine him up there; finding
something in the thin air to hang on to.