A break in concrete
is a wave through mountains,
like feathers of silt carried on
past the station.
Layered granite presses
the soil,
its weight chokes like smoke
flooding the subway.
Say the ground aches,
say my thoughts bake to the afternoon's rhythm.
Our wheels are not the measure,
and slick-dressed businessmen press behind me.
Here, like so much corner noise, I stand
watching the smiling scars and sunshine.
They smolder as they speak. They are not a river,
far from a cooling wave.
(Fall '08)
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