After the Train Crash
They perch quietly
in the coaches looking at us through shattered windows,
bituminous eyes starkly stare from window seats.
It is strange thing to see, but the crows know something.
Some passengers hang in the stillness shocked by the
lack of time,
some arrange mangled bodies like cut-flowers
upon an oozing canvas.
The crows peck at the cracked windows,
the sky wants to come inside,
and it does
painting dazed faces onto trammeled forms.
The brief blessings of last moments come and go,
then the dead wave cheerily as the train moves on
across a still falling sky.
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