On the red line i am my hands
crossed across
the hardhat
man who
stands in the doorway of
the subway--Háje
you foreign
I am
in love
the soft
parts of
your concrete,
your gobbled
asphalt your
endless darkness
in the lonely
night time woe
and all day long you
slag your morning
thump in the underground
nonsense. and I--
another mirage visage
not anywhere but
here in the metro car
the woman
with the red scarf
did not
go into

do you know me
her him me
do you know I
what is your voice
like when the people
have finally
gone home? are you

I want to feel
as the voice that
you are--Háje
how can I know you?
are you near?

hallowed commuters moog to
the cloak nook of every monday
beat. all their jackets hung
off shoulders of their mean
mugging whiskey still
smelling sunday wigs



I am

as I do--

going forever in hallways
under shopping malls
getting to know
all of your Hájes
Chodovs, Opatovs,
just to be
the strolling suit
I have waited to
show you

everything you could
ever want exists in
this here metro,
exists in the
faces of the
hardhat men who
go home, too, and
smoke their vitals
get soft in bed
as dog with stick
in mouth
do you
these men? Háje
are you

I listen
for you
to tell me and loiter
endlessly with ears out--
tongues of my
pockets too
no money to
go home to
what do
you know
about the hardhat man
the woman with
the red scarf who
did not go into
this metro car
do you know
where I
am going?
Háje, are