Black Tunnel, NYC by Bruce Edward Sherfield

Late is the hinter season
Fast is the yesterdayman
We  He  I
Not as one
Only two stations ago
His eyes like the eyes of a thing

Two minutes ago drowning
Before he imploded
    on the fast moving walls
Implodes into objects that gave
    the world its maps and measure

I had not reached out out out
But past him to an unseen island
Calling itself Escape from New York
    for fear shined in my garden

The train…
Too late is its speed
So fast it is behind us
Racing the shroud
To find its own eyes
Its own system of suns
    that were not anymore there

The two minutes ago
The end of a yesterday

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