And we'll end with this one, a flashback to the cell, 289-128.
"The last stop is also a beginning on the sea at 168th.
Poetry is hard, catches my eye.
And then we begin in the dark reflecting exit signs.
Square tiles resemble lives, lives in the box.
We are alone, the man and I of no significance
and observed through silent space
a life sentence or robotic motion.
Yes, poetry is hard but hard to tell.
It's just a regular sentence is a lie.
Part of the problem, you never know is [? at ?] a star
to language conflict.
Like the grinding wheels pulling off from 155th,
a ghost compartment much like the cold cell in solitary
are occupied, that inescapable silence when the body met
its shadow in a split second on the concrete,
bringing to glass, faces pressed inside a rectangular--
it's inside a rectangle, of the after sound of the thud.
Still allowed years later, another life expiring
from dear John.
Appearing at 125th, a man is reading
Aeschylus, the only book to read on the train.
No one reads books.
And we continue wrapped in noise, a poetic interlude
for poetry's sake."
Thank you.