Sure sign of the season departing: one last gift
of summer, lone fruit purpling, still clinging
to the tree. On the ground, leathered skins
of leaves that could not keep from shedding.
It’s hard enough to be a body among other
bodies, to walk the streets, descend
the stairs; to ride in trains, swaying, hanging on
to straps. The world accelerates past flickering
windows. Life is that indifferent engine humming,
hurrying us toward the next thing and the next.
I close my eyes and think— should the wheels
disengage from the tracks, being one among
so many other bodies, how would I manage
the certain panicked rush toward the exit
signs, a stairwell leading back to safety?
In the city, my body moving among other bodies
barely reflects the light that glints
like fire from rows of perforated windows.
How we must look from up high: dark, grainy
forms, indistinguishable to some cold eye.