By M.J. Cole
The Station is printing an escalator that spirals clockwise
At point break banally raptured and as immaculate
As identity shouted down from history
Windows inhale to shatter themselves
Reveal a shrapnel portal beckoning
Forceps scalpel forearm force in fragments
Permeate the wall and drop void-wise
Nothing gets rebuilt only rebranded
Imperial facades are a kitsch warning
The preservation of a threshold symbol
Slack-jawed sovereignty compounds
While social combustibility ghostwrites
Parricidal syntax to trace the arc of survival
Potentiality pixelating into grain silos of undifferentiata
The new black is squared and the crack is cubed
It makes us stop at the border of them and us
Boiling footsteps of indiscretion as every starting car
Might shudder a prelude to an explosive sigh
Finally stones comfort as they rise
Two hundred fifty miles per hour as they rise
To spite the muscle and marrow of history
As they rise as they rise as they rise
