Below the hipster streets, a city hunches --
Its cramped affection rented and displayed
Twelve times a day. They send us through in bunches,
Globbed foreign agents lugging air we paid
To bring. Without us, this collapsed subsection
Would suffocate -- I'm part of the machine,
A city-cyborg cell, a rich collection
Of prurient curiosity and lean
Requirements -- let me breathe this pure serene
And leave, my function in this underground
Dialysis discharged. Above the scene,
The city-cyborg breathes as well. Around
Us, asphalt blooms. Like bees, we dance a riddle
Or sting, reviving somewhere in the middle.
1 comment:
Written Sunday morning while everyone else was still asleep. This one's about the underground tour in Seattle. I struggled most with the last line, going through half a dozen words before settling on "reviving."
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