Midosuji subway

Every form roils in reform;
a woman wrapped in browns sits down
on the subway’s orange bench.

How many names has the dirt
from here to the surface above me
had? Daikokucho; burrowing,
insects churn the earth
through their bowels.

The tiny hidden hole amidst my teeth
fills with mysterious pastes of chew;
holding a thin red box of history in her left hand,
a woman closes her eyes
slow enough to be the envy of sleep.

Two women, enough alike to be each other,
stare at the window into darkness
to tug and touch their hair;
watching them, I watch these words
appear in my mind and then
so different on this page.




by Jerry Gordon
2.17.08
Midosuji subway