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
Shoulders,
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
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