elliot r. wolfson

on one foot dancing

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ode to rush hour/subway discretion

we ride
here where
gentility measure strength
this underworld umbrella
protecting not zeus
atman or jehovah
from the sun
or shade
we ride
crowded as rainclouds
hovering in nebulous sky
faces like sullen fish
stare but never speak
homebound to accept
the awaiting darkness
of lives calculable
and dreams predictable
until death reappear
like rosebud blooming
amidst winter stillness
nothing moves within
this nucleus of numbness
neither being nor becoming
more than more or less
an afterthought premeditated
existentially exaggerated

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