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This poem is taken from PN Review 150, Volume 29 Number 4, March - April 2003.

Underground David Sergeant


I come to:
To the swaying of the carriage
And my reflection in the glass.
My reflection is slumped
And looking at its feet.
It looks asleep.
We skipped by a siding underground
That had the air of a room recently occupied
The kettle still warm and the doors left open
The daylight showing

Before we were past


            We snapped into daylight again
            On our circuit, the sunlight
            Hopping down the swaying carriage
            Softening their faces.
            Eyes behind glasses, dry as paper, eyes the colour
            Of bottle green, fixed on their places.

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