6

Elevators rise far beyond
the wanted floor,
turn into blue subways
with female drivers
shifting into new tracks
of wonder and revelation.

The phone rings.

Cellophane thoughts
of a certain cerulean sentiment
unfold a hollow multiplicity.
The old man is barely here.
Who can challenge his appearance?

Night after night he scratches at origin,
dares specters to dance with him.
Night after night his proverbial nerve
longs for love’s simple sensation
in a brief temporary thrust.

Soaring through the entire all there is
he embraces the irrevocable outcome.
Speed is a lethal companion.

All possessions will transform
into rock, into blood,
into bones, grief for integrity,
leaving dubious praise in dust.

The city moves cadres of dead eloquence
down the streets
on catafalques of lost innocence.