New York Subway

TWO POEMS

NEW YORK SUBWAY

We are Egyptian dead-

Procession underground-

The dust-enshrouded head,

The gray hands strictly wound

In thongs to keep erect

The empty bodies swaying-

Mouths shaped to frozen sound,

Eyes beyond hope or dread.

Volcanic undertone

Pours from the funeral wheel-

The nether spirits' moan,

The gods who bend to seal

The lips of pyramids,

Who rush us blindly down,

Down through the vaults of stone,

Past votive alcoves lit

With torchlight pale as bone.

Will we come to the dark river?

Will the swift wheels go under?

Will Isis, the strange giver,

Blur the black wheels of thunder,

Blend us with the void?

And will our bodies float

With faces turned to sky,

Staring like Harold Lloyd,

Wrapped in a Chaplin coat?