Every Open Pore
The roof is a jig-saw of iron
veins scarred with dead-smoke.
The occasional un-cracked face
of glass peers down, remembering steam.
Each second is full, bubbling with noise to spare
newspapers crackle, feet tic along cement.
Machinery breathes as we push from the platform.
Not far enough from the panic, fields lay placid
fierce colors reach for your eyes, wash them
in your marble sockets. Sharp green rivers sway,
the glades sweating, lure you
to exist amidst their mirage.
Crimson curls along your cheeks, its finger rolling
out the creases.
Skies weigh hard again, crunching clouds
hold in the tears. The walls arch
as the tracks merge into tunneled darkness.
Feet tic along cement again, voices echo,
the heat from the person next to me leans
hard against skin. Invading every wrinkle,
every open pore.
Copyright © Phil Naylor | Year Posted 2005
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