which may be just a prayer    to break the stillness    a begging 

into the tunnel’s mouth for some relief    we have named 

i keep an eye out    for the bright    neon stamp on its forehead    

we remain hostages of cement    convinced it runs on the quiet pleads 

& leans past the yellow line   each a sorry genuflection   i am 

a body of knees     awaiting    the musty gust of wind that will greet me

more than ever i rely on my senses      especially the almost touch 

of a stranger’s hand    i feel the closeness of irritation      loud sighs

almost plasma thick   i can feel my cells     in metaphase  the wheels  

some stretch of track away     still moving   by the sheer will of will