No crude bid, I hope, to ponder the answer
to the merest question formed when, squat,
you pissed in the train tunnel, no chance for
privacy as I snapped the joking photo. And what
then of the bitumen tide that beats boulders
into rhetorical granules, deep in sea pockets,
or the near-invisible hunch of your shoulders
when tired and pressed you paused in that socket
of dark stone which suddenly, coldly flashed
with surprising fury, like a phoenix or anvil
blasting sparks… No, simply two people cached
and alone in one moment’s glimmer, though still
below the mountain’s lazarine starkness,
while around us wheeled in startled flight
an ancient machinery of light and darkness,
and another of darkness and light.
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