The glittering void
is laid across brown velvet,
a string of trade beads
centering a cysted eye of nacre.
All else is dark, dark
except the running lights
of the impending journey.
Voices in the distance bubble and fizz
or creak mournfully,
a failure of imagination.
A crowd that is passing
its own shadow on a circular track
of air and darkness
makes no noise.
Later, the screens and screams,
the flags, the stations, the reports,
the caterwauling coupling of
grinding track and moaning air brake,
the yammering and jamming of doors,
the blundering of the blind
coming and going of time.
Now, only the rush of the blood
fulltide in the ear,
the heartpound of desire,
the catch of a breath,
the settling intake of the thought
of leaving, leaving
Photo: Grand Central Station, by James Rainsford