Dawn, in Causeway Bay station,

three steps past turnstile 16,

people are already backed up.

A great funnel of flesh, fabric, rubber,

leather, and cotton, elbowing towards

the escalator to the third platform.


The faint whistle of the distant train

calms the blood pumping from the effort

of fighting into the subway at rush hour.

Bodies flood in and

squeeze into the human crevices.

The train glides in the darkness,


like a bullet piercing the unknown.

Moments like that, you know not

where you are going, but you know

a new journey

will be waiting for you

when you exit.