We're still
impaled—together
out here—idling
stuck!
in our own white
city's bright
and collective
engine's morning uproar.
Stuck! and standing-
frozen-
still—while,
hell and all-
around us rush
not wheels
but
cymbals—by which
I simply must
mean just
the crashing sound of—
but here, wait;
and
see; and
let's—
adjust! and—presently
be touched
to notice—an object;
any!
object's—vast
variety, at last!
Finally
revealed by such
wide or tiny
movements,
not of itself, but
instead,
of us—
its
oh-so-
willingly down
and
piteously out-
bound observers.
