the light shines through the window
slanted and it reaches for the dust motes
enveloping them in
the gold of ancestors long buried in the ground
under our feet
there are tunnels we cannot see
where all the men who have had enough
and the women who no longer want to deal
with ideas
live.
they stand upright in the soil, barefoot
and walk under times square 42 street
all the way to brooklyn their tunnels
lead and on mondays they slip out through the subway
tracks and join the rest of us