THEY NO LONGER SPEAK

                   They no longer speak.

                   Their frightened faces weave

                   figures of eight

                   down grey pavements,

                   through grey subways

                   into grey office blocks

                   uttering no sound

                   but the piston cry

                   and the wheel roar.

                   The grey multitude

                   paces dusty concrete,

                   silent as dust,

                   wearing out heels,

                   fraying collars,

                   carrying blind sperm,

                   blind eggs,

                   their secret,

                   numbed by the grey voice

                   of their machines.

                   Green lights release

                   the dammed-up traffic.

                   It spills

                   angrily past the painted faces,

                   grey skin soot-grimed,

                   closed lips red-rimmed,

                   pale pink organs

                   of speech that refuse

                   to cry.

                   They are only here

                   because grey pavements, grey subways

                   are the way to grey office blocks.

                   But the silence inside their souls

                   rages with exhaust-resounding,

                   gear-changing,

                   brake-shrieking,

                   tappet-ringing

                   panic of machines.