the ship of now has sailed
and glides like night into the port of evening
through foggy voices
like shouts in pillows
or birds calling in a downpour

the rattle of the subway
is the ringing of the telephone
and the empty platform
is the hum of an open line
and friends brought home by the cops
after long wandering
were disconnected, but fine

certain particle-board futures
have the bland mouth
of bread and flesh
the pallor of swedish modern
the knotted hardness of knuckles on toes
without the utility of the other kind
and after long discussion,
do we agree that these are just as dangerous as
the hardwood forest
the undisclosed source of the blackest river
the well that fills with sleep
and then starts to seep past its bounds