Samuel

Trapped

These buildings fill the entire sky,
superseding its blue with terra cotta
gargoyle brown, and concrete gray.

Mirrored glass silver slices
the landscape, shredding
the clouds, fracturing
everything. These walls insulate
from wind, distance from soil,
filter the light of the sun.

Instead of earth, I feel
black asphalt and tar. Hear
squealing rubber tires, engines
belching out stomachs full of gasoline
and fire. Feel
hoards of people, vacant rivers
of flesh and polyester in nice shoes, rushed,
knocking elbows
into the bus.

The vomit of
of exhaust, the iridescent
slime of neon sliding
across the hoods of plastic cars
small earthquakes
come with each ones passing,
electric lines drone, thrumming
of helicopters, all overtakes,
breaks, concentration,
vibrating
street over
subway lines and passageways.

Steam from manholes obscures
lines of sight, and betrays the continuation
of this
maze
of stone
and
metal
ever
downward
into
the
barren
earth

There is a sliver sky,
flawless, sapphire blue,
no wider than my hand,
squeezed between rooftops,
a hundred stories up.