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.