Dare I dare, to watch the sun
break open against these alien, icy shores?
To watch it, rudely, shoulder aside the mist,
from those distant, ice-shrouded moors;
to push the smog of industry,
into the alleyways of these bloody streets?
To encompass these footsteps of apes
like unique, discordant, ravaged drumbeats?
Dare I dare, to listen to the hum
of motion; to the scream of the road beneath me?
It suffers beneath exhausted boots;
A staged and caged black asphalt sea.
How dare we dare to dream,
of foreign lands atop a tortured earth;
and search for Henry David’s Haven –
Sexless, natural; boasting sterile mirth?
Still, we watch the morning shear
against the windowpane,
cracked and broken by the ugly arrivals
and departures of trains;
no longer spewing black smoke into the sky,
but spitting bile at predestined stops along its lanes,
we listen to the glass as it magnifies and burns,
like we might once have heard the breaking of chains.
I don’t like a lot of things; work and Henry David Thoreau are pretty high on the list of things I don’t like.