My daughter saw this poem in a subway station in Washington DC.
We travel the murmuring city
far into a stoic grid of energies
too swift and deep for us to see
what passes by, in hope, impatiently.
Here is the lingering language of our
distant dreams that follow us around
like changing children clinging lost and found
within the city's gates, an alphabet of sound.
Here, too, through quickened footsteps deliver now
ourselves from place to blooming place of sound and steel
and glass to that which cannot climb and keep, but last
between our tenured future and our past.