An Image Of The Face Looking Frantically Around Itself While Becoming Defeated

Could we look more disheveled,
getting off the train
in a major American city?
Moving out from under the elevated rails
to watch the rain from
a less comfortable distance
and feel more a part
of whatever way the people that day
are holding themselves,
their crumpled bodies
just barely touching the ground
in a heavy wind. Pushing glasses
up their faces, newsprint ink running
down their arms. Strangled and rushed,
the beating body, and the body being
beaten.

Do human forms
still crash together
with alarming force and frequency, the air
thick with their sweat? On days like
this, when the end seems
nearer than usual? I’ll still kiss you
but—
It is difficult to imagine you naked when you are running late.