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