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a morning commute by irras han


a   m o r n i n g   c o m m u t e

b y    I r r a s   H a n

Our voices do not mix: the sea of air
that separates, firmly insulates.

The sun, keeping fisherman’s hours,
reels in the long tinted shadows –
the parting whispers of the night.

Slowly, light spreads evenly
over your large, my small, city,
insolates the man-made boundaries
that confine and define.

Familiar vibrations, monotonic pitch
of wheels on asphalts, on rails,
prelude the repetitions
that will shake us
into patterns.

Under the flatness of our feet, the Earth hides
its curvature in the tremors that kiss
the soles of our lonely stance.

All around, photons scatter and decay
in real time that feels like a replay.

And our thoughts, pungent with uncertainty,
have once again grown arms
to hold the true color inside
with the tightness of shut eyes.

In Einstein’s parallel trains, passengers travel
along private world lines
that seem never to intersect

without a miracle. We do not meet
on your metro, my tramway.



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