Song of Nothing

The vivid imagination of the trains
bringing us away from home
at the end of a hard night.
It is early in the morning,

before the commonly held day, at the end of mine
and your scarf hides the lower half
of your face as you sleep.
Nothing's changed. It never has yet.

My life is devoted to living itself.
The rain falls down the stairs.
The stairs eventually lead to the stars
if you build them long enough.

There goes the R-train.
The great generals did not write
songs. They spooned the weather
of fire down upon young men.

The doors breath open. The yawning,
the hunched, the pungent and the homeless
travel onward beside us. Our weekend
is over, now it's back to Hell,

which we love so much. What makes her think
her life is worth televising?
The bluebells chiming from the top
of her hat? Her night in the sky?

We came out from under the subway
and the rain was there, though
the train had been a submarine for
30 minutes. We are immediately us.

Another night under the sea of
the East River. Day comes up,
ruining the X-mas lights
of the stars.