Saturday, January 29, 2011

And You Will Only Remember the Hawks

Morning: A phalanx of

Trench-coated novices advance

Toward a steel pavilion beneath which

The ground gives way

To groaning stairs

And the red tile welcomes

All to its uncompromising grasp

Above the hawks are frozen in air

Humming their broken verse

In time, a time which

No novice will speak of hence

For the nascent steam

Rises from their gloves

And they fear what awaits

Them below

Though they do not show it.

Evening: Yearning, leaning,

Dancing with the largesse of the train,

No longer its prisoner

The precipice is written on their


Their bodices of gabardine hidden beneath

Wool and linen

They file solemnly into chiming doors—

Doors of drink, doors of food,

Doors of comfort and luxury

The wan longing of morning,

the cries of the hawks,

Long forgotten.

by Jackie