Naples Metro

From here you go...
                                    down through the subterranean stone
where no plants grow.
                                    We’re numbered, turnstiled all one way.
Don’t panic. Dream.
                                    TOLEDO. DANTE. The train doors close
on us, though we’re
                                    messaging still where the living live
so far above.
                                    Then distance snaps the words we send,
and speed deletes
                                    the sounds, airbrushes signs to streaks.
Now all we have’s
                                    in manuscript: graffiti calls
of rage, abuse,
                                    maps of scrawl on darkened windows.

This lad leans close –
...