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—
among the ruins.