Kushal Poddar writes

Riding The Rain Train
 
A glib paper cup 
refills itself in rain. 
Train's pane jellies.
 
Your side face 
is the part of a town 
we just crossed. 
 
And its market, station, 
man riding his sleep, 
crows on a garbage heap, 
 
trees longing for 
the tiredness of 
twelve o'clock birds.
 
You remain tipsy
on rain tea infusion,
eyes shut, metals
unthreaded in your dream.
A field opens.
 
 Rain Train -- Rich Booth