NO RUDDER IN THE JUNGLE
Lanes of bridgework are well over
my head : the crawling spread of
the spreading sprawl; and wishes
are sent, Heavenward as thousands
an hour, walking Brooklyn bound
and headed 'round, return again to
these lower strands of roadway, ice,
and walks. These places where
people congregate seem loaded
now : rolls, and Spanish dishes,
meats, and pork lo mein. God forbid
the streetside man should ever dine
alone! I cannot judge the frequency,
no, not any longer than this - all
just a buzz, a noise, a hiss.
-
My creature days are over. I'd rather
be an insect on this wall of time
than a perpetrator of this spreading
crime. How many, how many shall
pass, these shed-bound and harbored
fissures, lost, before drifting out
to the river's distant sea?
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