Commuters with black tobacco lung
descend
and rise in curious resurrection
to
cold gray canyons only to die again.
They
live in subterranean trails
carved
from the deadest of rock
for
the sake of electric shimmers
from
silver bullet wails.
Standing,
the
logos from Bethlehem
swings
from a loopy strap,
unaware
that he has been reborn
into
the lap of downstream time.
He
wears a worn hat
and
baggy brown suit.
Sheep,
riding and rocking
through
switchover blackouts,
careen
through invisible salvation
while
scrolling a phone
or
reading The New York Times.
This
is a land of beggars, lepers,
the
crippled and the blind
who
wish to vacate the grave.
Connected
by dramatis personae,
they
march as a single outcast
onto
the deep turnstile platform
which
is their stage of seven stages.
Together,
they are an incarnation
wanting
only the opportunity to save.
This,
therefore, is the universe.
This,
the arrow of space and time
caught
in orbital ellipse.
This,
the marriage of the lamb
taken
in holy howling vows
for
better or for worse,
on
hold until the future age
springs
open a billion years
from
now.
~William Hammett
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