There was a hush inside the air,
when you were lying on the stair,
feeling the world had scattered, there,
like little feathers on the air.
and as the people filed away,
the men in suits of black and gray, each with
his hands inside his coat, each with that hush inside
his throat (and the concrete cold, and the cruise
control, and the drops of blood in the shaving bowl -
or the lovely things, bright and hovering, that can
pull you up, and with a thousand wings let you thought)
they're thingking : "how did we arrive?
was it by fortune on design?
Or was there something else in mind."