Loss of Inner Voice

The cars float on a wind-tipped point
of black space
neon interiors with shakiness
the mouth of a river
in a subway train.
My face, my face,
the eyes i see through
the railing of steel
the train rushed by like a woman,
my shoes are soft as winter
the walk has a rhythm
of an escalating.
The people are not people
but visions of souls
and memories.
Signs are monumental
alphabets
I see a man ahead
who is he?

Graininess
soft details
whizzing past me
circling a sky
I want to dive into.
The figure
runs in multiple directions,
a hill and a slope
of lush
shadows
a hollow tree
the binoculars I see through
my sister running in a field
she slips and hurts her knee
my life as a Super-8 movie
her time was then something
I could borrow.
Now
static interferes
run on sweet one
on fuzzy grass of electronic madness.