There is the tremble in the throat
of the tunnel before you hear it, movement
deep as a groin in the ground, a passion
of motion described by the MTA
as mass transit, but recognized by lovers
of subways as transportation
of another kind. Under the streets
we flock together, fleet and half tame
as rare birds loose in a cavernous
pet emporium, returning for the night
to their rows of pagodas. There is a sift
of wings against metal, electric
curtain of doors, departure’s warm weight,
and the rise of our feathered hearts.