In a station

In a station all the world passes. Love’s lost; I, alone, see only the ground. That glimmer, gone, farfetched, fake, just repetition anyway. Anonymous face. Every day, the millions; every night, the same, but lost in flashing lights. The unseen faces. Count blocks, count stops, count money, count cracks, count the times I saw that face. Once. Lost. Lonely. The apple grows all day, every night. And hits the ground every time, so, again, love’s lost, along with beauty. Only the ground is certain. Concrete, poured into a wasteland. Proclaim it or leave. Mercy in a big sky, soft ground, and nothing forced, solitude found.