The stage of grief when

you begin writing bad poetry:

It's hard to know you have a ticket to leave
but on which train, when?
You needn't go to the station; the train
comes for you.
The tracks break through the earth, upending,
houses, cars, the pavement.
Amid this apocalypse,
you have been surgically removed, traceless
like a splinter
that has hemorrhaged my heart.