the tempo is concord
searing air blasting
the bodies
planning an upward escape
more than one man is lost,
an agitated woman acts like
a bystander, peering at
another man’s weary jowls,
a reflection foreign
even to himself
slackened weight
and each dirty cog
ceaselessly revolving
propelling forward
and steadily upward
as daylight pours
over them again
above ground
© 8.15.2014 heather brager
