Conception
 
A long slow note
Curled around the girder
In the tunnel under Lafayette.
"The Blues", somebody said.

Bending steel in his bare hands,
The harp player warped spacetime.

You could see the matrix curving.
The axes glowed faint red upon her skin,
A grid emerged, inhaling and exhaling

On the opposite platform,
Someone tapped a pair of sticks!
And then, another harp sang back!
A tough-bred cluster of skin-heads danced,
Compactly, on the concrete slab.

The F came fiercely,
roaring down the track.
It blew the music out the tube, away.
The doors hissed open in an instant.

Many pairs of eyes touched briefly then.

A web of sight-threads crossed.
The shape they made
Hung there, in the air.