The unnamed

Furious buzzing of wheels over steel

sheer shrilling and shrieks, clatter of windows

not bolted tight, flapping in vain

against night air in love with another.

It is speed he admires, the stealer of scarves

and of tissues still damp, of kisses still felt;

he lives for the wonder of cold metal spine,

hard alloys and glass blown from stone,

this invigorating plastic whose heart he can’t break,

under him, under him, flowing through him

too fast to feel. He lives

for the pneumatic roar as the tunnel looms,

or the bend in the track,

or simply himself,

anonymous dark.

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