from here the landscapes are fluid
blue bags, grey towers melt into a sea
but the lake was always here
full of clams
but the towers overtook them
because the souls on the train
lost the garden in the haze
doors open when they should be closed
to avoid the terminals we already know
the footsteps above my head
trying to derail what can't sail
the train splits the crossroads
with its limbo cabins
passengers fal
l into a deep dream
of what the clams would be
missing their stops
the platforms don't wait
so we get stuck
rotting in transport
