Scented unsteadiness tears the air
While the thunder waits
And waits for us to notice. It waits
As we bait each other with talk
Talk, talk, talk! Mere words instead
Of feelings. We use our head to clear
The air. But we hear still that other sound
That dull hum beneath the street
We walk, silent, dark, arms swinging
Quiet, alongside. Each alone.
Lost, we walk the drift of strangers
Are those your hands which hold papers,
Lighters, promises, lies? Or mine?
The hands pass one to another,
Mine, yours, someone, anyone:
Father to friend, and each to each,
They could never know. Where are they going,
Where would they? They are done
Each and every one.