Ritual Poem by Lorcan Black

Somewhere above an intercom crackles and buzzes-
the voice of God?

And these other bodies down here-
stupid and graceless,

vile in their proximities
in the dust and hot air.

Trains slam out of tunnels,
erupting and fleeting-
great, mechanical shafts
shunting out the hours.

Warm carriages envelope me
with their waves of light.

They feel like home.

This is the essence of love:
hands against the glass,
vacuum-packed against some foreign chest
and this strangled immediacy;
strangers sharing a breath.

One blink and the thread dissolves,
the doors slice open-

Ceremonial.