1.

“love can sometimes wear the face of violence”

The subway doors shut—

Heavy, moist air,

August in the city.

Where I live, where I hide,

my face masquerades for hours—

a calm, cool solitude—

menace lies inside forgotten containers,

anxiety a response to thoughts,

chains, this lack of light.

Resting my face against

scratched glass,

the familiar empty station.

2.

The familiar empty station

Inside the Chekhov moment space

finally expands toward the window,

hair following and sleep, shattering notions

of other, it all is “other”

but also “I am”

is the dawn before language,

the visit of the mind itself

next time the cock crows,

undone by the birth of light

3.

. . . coming toward the “Ashes of”

—accustomed as I am to pencil

releasing a shadow figure:

Salted water and heat in the summer,

smells of dust and rosemary—

In a skimpy bathing suit gesturing

empty handed toward the beach,

various flags beat/dangers of water

The past not just “a souvenir”

The family permeates all at the station

That small girl, fists on hips, too—

Where gestures are that large