this concrete jungle

concrete jungle
Nokyoung Xayasane

Every day the sun
hits the trees
in this concrete jungle.
The birds
fly into the sky
into the blue
stretching out
along panes of glass
and rafters of steel.
Cranes loom
overhead,
their metallic calls,
a flapping of winged
newspapers flutter along
the sidewalk.

The city,
it pulses with
the sound of electric guitar
and voices singing
in the subway.
The fields of gold part,
the long stalks separate
and I am walking through
and the subway doors.

I am in the middle
of a stream somewhere,
the sky above me
and two people pressed up
against me in the subway car.
I have made my way
into the middle of the stream
where a flat boulder lies
in defiance of the current.
I lie my body down
on its cool surface
and I lie my head back
against the subway seat.

I watch as
the blur of colour and light
outside the doors
erupt into sky,
bird calls,
waters foaming.
I am in the stream
of my childhood
looking for something
elusive in the sky.
I am waiting,
ever so patiently,
in this concrete jungle.

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