Indirect beings
wobble-wobble
In slow connect, cold
underground
Here in these parts, subterranea
isn’t usually the Metro
It’s the parking
structure
As we inch through lack
of walkways
No smooth passage given
This is more of a
holding cell
Grate lines make me
slam my hand on reality
Meted-out spaces for us
I was trapped, but not
forever.
12/5/13
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