Blue heavens are always open

above clouds.  Far below voices linger,

busily hurrying with little thought

of arriving.

A flat wax, misty day quiets the travelers

holding handles and scratched

metal poles, attempting to remain upright

as the subway attacks their gravity.

Trench coats and book bags sway as

cars tunnel noisily through a labyrinth

of darkness.

A portion of the city is underground for

morning.  Weaving in transit.  Arriving in

the hustle.  Escaping to the surface.


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