Tunnels

Riding on the underground, long into the tunnel dark.
The scrawled tiles set up station walls
Poets dealing one-word thoughts.
A thought caught pure brute fell ink blots.

Fighting echoes is the lonely driver's flight.
The Poet's long taken the nightside, and emerged lightside she framed 
His chalky face with thumbs and fingers, and well bitten thumbs and fingers
Well met returned and felt no pain,
Chewed down quicks quickly nubs thick,
The future anticipated transit.