5th Avenue

by Charles Cuyana

As the wheeled machine

comes to a stop,

I ride the flurry of beings

rushing inside.

And as I laid my feet

onto the moving floor,

a visage sheens

in this sea of people,

like a gem peeking out

from the gravel.

Our gazes lock, like couplers

reaching for one another.

As the brilliance of the dusk leap

from glass to glass,

from person to person,

I clutch my glances

as if a thief is in this metal box.

For I know, that when

the woman speaks,

and the wheeled machine

comes to a stop,

I shall, or you will,

ride the flurry of beings.

And as one of us

lays our feet onto the platform,

your luster will shrink

smaller

and smaller,

slowly,

as our gazes unclasp.