Hidden under sheets of ice
invisible as dreams in glass
comes smoldering behind, my foe
who shoulders fire and steel aside,
rides elevators high and low
and sneers at all the waking world.
I hide on night-trains filled with ghosts
—which glide like snakes
—who lurch unseen
among the pillars, thin and lost.
No mouth, no mind but eyes that scream.
A hissing bus, a subway howl.
No name that I recall but sheds
bright rays like skins that flood within
and touch inside,
sink down to bone
and out again.
He prowls the ledges roofs and platforms,
leaving husks of those he’s been.
Burns a trail through the city,
smoking in and out of hours
lost and wretched,
strewn across the starry night—
Matthew Chamberlin lives in Virginia, where he also writes.
