Monday, April 20, 2015


Cluttered black coats spout
steam clouds on platforms
before the train eats them.

Each coat, a machine entering
machines entering

Manhattan. This morning's
track grease, a suicide's
body, makes us momentarily

organic by seeing the red parts that
compose us. "Fucker ruined

my meeting," someone hisses.
Doors remain closed. The train goes
nowhere. A faulty cog

stalls a machine.

1 comment:

  1. Oooh; very shivery. I love the way the line spacing shapes the pacing.