To ride the subway clutching half dead roses
in a paper bag is to know that shadows
have weight, light has gravity and geometry
exists in algorithms of pain, that sadness
is a reflection of the loneliness of space and time.
Even the sisters under the MTA map,
one cradled in uneasy sleep
in the cleft of the other’s shoulder,
the woke one staring mournfully ahead
as the cab lights alternate between
jaundice station hues and tunnel blacks,
are aware that they are moving grave stones.
The lovers awkwardly kissing in the next seat,
her eyes slightly open not meeting his gaze,
their heads tilted so far their faces misalign,
exist in the uncertain promise of intimate connection.
A woman stealthily smoking nooses of ash
steps on, cradling a crying cup of coffee,
while an old man with a cane holding a
rattling tin of coins blindly exits to the platform.
At the top of the exit, the nearest brownstone
has a family gathering to take a clan photo,
their impatient gazes exposing the micro spaces
between their existence and their own lonely thoughts.
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