her voice was fit for rust
a hymn, i didn't recognize.
on the platform i shimmied with the breeze.
in the darkness
in a twirl of moonlit silk,
she was figureless
and fluid,
pitchy, but sincere.
the serenade ceased,
only in the sweep of
the arriving train.
lady,
of all the mornings
i think of platform diving,
of all haunts,
why stay buried beneath
when the underground is but so deep?
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