Dark dead of morning,
and already—before the bus brakes
squealing F#
and the trains peeling-
off in high C—there's the distant
rhythms of many
hungry engines, the heavy rattle
of a battery
of big trucks coming,
the uniform clandestine
clomp of filthy
work boots hustling—to get
the dissonant
language of the
streets all picked-up
quickly—before the heart-
beat in the
womb is detected,
before the ghoulish
neighborhood priest
and the squeaky-
clean politician
can hear it
and get started.
