This is not the smiling baby on the train that I remember.
This one’s more serious;
one who collects faces. (1)

I must have been looking in from another track
while a third train ran between, layers of glass
creating an undersea effect.

On the seabed there will be domes
for women without purpose, who like to gaze out
and judge quietly.

The babies will be kept safe
by women who write about hearth,
able to see through small eyes.

What I see through small eyes
is nothing but panic.
I remember the panic.

(1) This refers to Tania Hershman’s poem Baby

Mourning song

This new season holds promise when it comes to love
a 10 billion pixel panorama is set
before my eyes, my ears, before my skin and you.
Budding green shoots, look at the way they are going.
They can’t be stopped while overhead the clouds roam like
giants, like ceiling ghosts. While under the earth a
stirring. A bridge made of flimsy rotting wood, fat
with decay yielding. And you think that you struck gold
and so, here we are. All there is left is too watch.

A golden shovel to Sylvia Plath’s Morning Song.