period as "The Crimes of Capitalism"--also found at this blog.
It represents a wholly different mood from the book, and, even the other pieces at
this blog. It is, in a way, unfinished; but I can't do anything with it now.
Angel Metro Station in Winter
Hundreds of souls fly madly through your caverns.
Crammed inside gleaming metal boxes.
So many souls: old, young, indifferent to my plight.
I can't stop staring.
I am looking for an answer to a question I cannot quite put into words.
I stand on the platform and look for a sign that love is possible
even now in this cold.
It would be a consolation for the tricks you have played on me,
But, no, you don't give away anything to anyone.
I am not this flesh and not these bones.
My soul hovers somewhere above the city.
Watching my predicament with no special interest.
I who am not on an island somewhere in the sun.
Your go-between used to comfort me,
but now she has found other work,
and no one has answered my help wanted sign.
March 2001
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