The babies are at the window
of the train, watching the smoke
rise, and here’s another reminder
that words are only shards of
of our shattering selves, collected
in each aftermath, in pockets, and
in the corners of silence, to be
glued into the mosaics we are
always making with the bits, and
to give some shape to the next
cry when it comes, whenever
it comes, faces pressing this
window of whatever that is at
the border of a full breath.
