Queue the Sequin Sequence
Enough volume of anything creates a direction. So many of us gathered in the station we became a silver streak.
Enough volume of anything creates a direction.
So many of us gathered in the station
we became a silver streak.
I flowed aboard the train
as a glass of seltzer into a stream,
not realizing the democracy
was one molecule, one vote.
A bucket seat did not quite contain me,
the water in me wising
to the wet in you each jolt,
brain a buoy in the current,
plum in the pool.
Someone gobbled plaice or buttered grouper
while the wingnuts of a jacket lapped my flaps.
It’s not manners that matter but density
in crowds, not class but state,
not fish but their appetite
for education, massing, following, how it
loops and swells, eddies, spools,
performs the same flawless suture
as the ocean on its wounds.
It seeps downhill and machines draw it up.