The street is multicoloured

underneath my panic – rushing down, feet tangled up in leaves.

The pavement snaps – my nutrient, underneath;

hands punching through the granite,  angles, wired triangles,

telephone trees,

spurred from my robotic sleeping – underneath me, underneath,

 

underneath

 

a code carved by roads as ready as veins.

The people come and go, beta blockers to the day –

my minute control – the light that flickers

from above.

I am so well hidden, I do not even know

that I am  -

the street, the cars, the cold damp blot of yellow

overhead,

the twitching fingers underneath the hem of window lace,

the bright red coke can –  guts glittering in the pad

of fox tongues.

 

I am so unknown

that they do not even know

that I am

 underneath their feet, clutching their steps,

hollow tinnitus–

something so indecipherable, unique to nothing –

I am everything where everything is

and underneath all that, something else too.

 

Commute

wherever there is example –

I am underneath, existing or maybe not –

full fathom five in bottle clash,

sweat of newspeak, grimy tabloid earth,

sewer swelled and meth mapped

 

and sometimes when you see me,

I could still be moving when you do not.