Subway Scrying

_ _ _ _

Trains… they click… and clock… and knock…
Who’s there?
Only winds… and moulds… and crackles by the metal rods…
And you… watching me in the tinkling obscurity of glass, staring eyes at my blurring reflection.

What do you scry?

We are like pictures in the tremoring sub-gallery…
An artist of two spirits – underground…
There we are, acquainted through the subway lens: two persons of our third imagination.

When you turn your head to see, if I am real – you see different me. Profile me. Plain portrait, sealed in corridor of lights, and seated bodies. But you seek the eyes, waiting for the sign – the turn – and almost whispering…
Are you the one?
Am I?
No…
No.

And then – re-play. Re-staring at each other, we re-make our momentary art, which would – at any time – re-place the models. Them – have left, and now we are subjects of the subway scrying.

What do I scry?

While the train is squishing night before us…
While people hide in tones and roles, and scores…
Still do we stare at each other’s snapshots on the tinted glass. Exchanging frames…

This is a triangle of life: reverse and not. There, on its top, we’re pleased to know each other.
But our bodies – not.

__ __Sub-window__ __

Me__ _ _ _ _ _ _ __You

Sub-Me. Sub-You. Sub-scry. Next station – is the end of my soul sub-way.
Our fantasy shall rapidly deny…

Such were my thoughts, desires and delusions. The train arrived. The station called my name. Then doors unveiled the womb: to let the glow-worms open to the sky.
Yet, not for me.
I saw you leaving – wearing my body.
Just for free.

Soon after you’ll cross out ‘S’ from ‘Scrying’, crying of being me…
_ _ _ _

Thus, spoke him off the underground glass.
_________
They changed for each other’s reflections.
On the 29th day of the moon...