At first they stand, orphaned, like a line of birds,

First on one foot, then the other, in unison,

Like any other unnamed someones, as if poised

For a firing line, until someone thinks he knows

A train is coming in the sparrow-morning light,

And someone else taps a pack of cigarettes

Against his gloved hand, not exotic,

But it’s as if he’s slipped into captivity. One

Of those corner-of-the-eye, white-sky

Days, late winter a hammer against the

Platform, and gathered above the grave-

Line of the gap enough snow

To consider the blue clouds floating,

Like forgiveness, above us all.

Whoever screamed just then,

Then quieted, then shouted, high, like a crow,

Leaves me filled with absence, listening

For silences, cupping my ears. For

A moment, nothing is being celebrated,

Nothing undone, or measured, nothing

Moves, or rings, in the air, and in the next

Moment sirens are continually dying in

The distance. In the time it takes the train’s

Doors to open, and close, and for the train

To swirl us all off, half in, half out, of

Our own wills, underground, something

Like joy pours out of the cloudburst heart,

And whatever feelings each one of us has had

Goes off into the daylight without us.