Awakening

You tumble asleep past shuddering lights 
insistent like operatic vocal cords 
through subway windows. Orange plastic seats. 
Gray littered floor. The smell of old pizza. 
In your dream the train is empty, loneliness 
yawns before you as if you are Jonah 
and the world is a whale. Some whole heaviness 
heaves the darkness against you. In the dream 
you know that this earth is larger than you can bear 
alone. But then you wake up and the train is full. 
Full of people. People. You remember.
Playgrounds exist. And dance halls. And stadiums. 
The Great Wall of China and the Eiffel Tower. 
Bountiful Park. The Whole Earth. Your Kitchen. 
From some ancient aloneness, you wake up 
remembering there are hugs. There are 
Quinceaneras, Sweet Sixteens, sweat-filled air 
at your cousin’s wedding. And even love 
in what it feels like to hate. Wanting to destroy 
instead of choose who you’ve bound yourself to. 
Here in the tumbling swiftness 
of the tunnel of loneliness and languish. 
there are humans. There are these people. 
Strangers and friends on your bench. Hold to them 
with chatter and anguish. Hold them however you can.