It's always too late.

It takes a lot out of a man
to dig with his fingers
into the dribbling, silent shout of a
porcelain sink,

worming after a ring he gave
in the third car of a train that ran slick
through the dark
to a woman he’s loved
for seven short years.

Spiraling clicks.

Time and pipelines wait for no man
to carry meaningful things into places
that no one can see.