Come. I am standing
on Platform No. 2.
The morning paper’s talking
to itself. I overhear it saying,
The times are dark.

In a space cloven
by arrivals and departures,
an unseen bird is singing and
I don’t believe the paper anymore

but only wait to see
my own sunlight
alight from the carriage
and bloom in my arms,

the departing train’s heartbeat
thrumming up four free feet.

— Sarabjeet Garcha

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