The sound of the noise
cannot be picked up;
but the noise is there,
flickering.
Its roundness is too polished,
slippered, not grasped,
hitched up around your view,
but there.
Shifting into a higher gear
it rises, drilling you
downward into concrete
baskets.
Gathered paving below
oppresses, heightened by
the smoke-laden glow:
Disorientation.
Amidst this grinding cruelty
you suffer and grope,
flee your corner,
always told what to do.
If there was a tower
that broke away from hard grey,
you would ride it
to the top.
2007 Richard Townrow
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