at Cabramatta station, and the world folds still-born into that night
its creation thought to overcome. Still-born into nights

wrapped round the incense of middle air now breathed
through grief-scented sighs, now fled into still-born nights

that never even gasped. These people melt in aborted twilights:
strange-tongued crowds gathered purposelessly round the still-born night,

security guards shrugging at what they won't see, a jaded-Buddha-
clasping mother kneeling in her daughter's blood, a still-born in the night...

Is this my newspaper or do I witness from my seat as the 10:30 rolls, jerks,
violently escapes as though still-born into the night.