By: Mark Belair

 

Our subway car, on an elevated track,
whipped past a long-abandoned metal

switching tower—or power sub-station?—
its curled paint stiffened, its outside—

propane?—tanks rusted around, a bird—
a starling?—(we were traveling too fast

to know anything for sure) perched atop
one tank, beak open in a song, it seemed,

of mating masked by our own gruff rumble.
Then our speed swept the moment away

and I closed my eyes to imprint
this version of an ancient, yet still

soaring vision—torn, as ever, from
the hard, hurtling commonplace—

of love
among the ruins.