There is a baby on the back of the train
whose mother must be absent
or asleep
enclosed by blue machinery, ice
and soft snow falling
beautifully.

Cries coming and going
like gentle tides
more panic, more noise!
subdued morning face soothed
by a calm haze
the daze of the afternoon, smoked sweet.

where is the passion that comes
with new life?
the young are already weary of the world
leaving the rest of us clawing bird-like
searching for gods walking along the masses,
and answers through cracked glass
-light splitting into numerous pink suns
one, two, twenty.

maybe he is crying for his mother
or perhaps he has already discovered
the incomprehensible raw truth

the fruit has been rotting for a while
and nothing gold can stay.