"Under the El in Chicago"

Broken down, that man’s neon soul,
cracked and spilling into a pool on the street
that snares the midnight in its glimmer. Gestures
become so oblique they lose their sense,
like words too short for meaning. A word
we stare at and don’t recognize, don’t register.

After all that nonsense such calm, such glinting order.

Crack that nonetheless into an I don’t know and shake off all the
confidences. Here he whispers as they hush to the ground. Here
he stands, naked, and his quivering whiskers
draw frantic messages in the air to
far off people, distant times.

A man coughs in the distance.

Through myriad
cracks we see the past that is ours – passing
frames framing each other and their half
parsing space in a jostling competition
for perfection of memory. Gone
times for remembering, because eyes
search for now across those flickers of space.

A part desirous, a part desirous, a whole.

But the train rattles overhead and we see
the cold dark man eyeing us and remember
that this is no end.

The cat-faced woman stares unperturbed
she stares she watches
and we watch
back in fits and starts
unable to watch
the purest watching.

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