Missing the 7.30
Dark and dank in the subway,
where a pale youth plays
his stairway song.
The sound is a taproot
sucking her dry: a memory sighs,
flickers, a star expiring to shadow.
She stands alone in the commuting crowd,
the raincoats huddling close
like carrion crows, the tangled bramble
of muffled voices, the eyes maggot bright.
They are the sound of the sea
shaping stony seed.
She tosses a coin into the bowl
of this pallid priest, mouths
a moist prayer, a silver fish swallows
a hook, gills gulping air.
Copyright © phil wood 2013