Arriving trains announce loud times to come;
on departing, they drive their sound with them.
Paralyzed by the urgency to move,
you've encountered a station you hadn't
foreseen, and its radical harmonics
could explain the beauty, clear if distant,
fixed upon the face of every stranger
on the train. But, if you’d joined the elect,
in eternal life’s excesses, passing
your train's true destination, only you'd
yet to be informed of your election,
why would, on such a favored subway car,
no one look in your direction? Why are
their faces less beautiful than before?
