Later

On the way to the station it comes back, like meaning,
that great upheaval. The trees let through the partially
designed wreck; eyes of brine, age dishonored. The opening
of a filing cabinet wherein dusty righteousness, the prolonged
carnage of the invisible. So many dark sermons
in the light, hearing brought on by its density.

The stations on the underground stretch on to infinity.
Vision's ribbed by concrete pillars shuttering by,
further framed by the glass. If I was on the train
the glittering schoolkids, sleeping young lovers nodding
in unison some continuous promise, permed ladies
clucking food, footwear and prices would become
a new pressure, puzzle of immediate concern...
not particularly important.

You were gone so long I came to look for you. Idea
as motion. The endless stairs regular as clockwork,
opposite of my pulse. At least (at last) it wasn't
a phonecall. All those meanings shuttling back & forth
through the banal language of darkness, credit them
self-awareness, reflection; have the man selling
winter gloves in the aisle shouting a brilliant truth.