The escalator steps appear to rise
from unseen depths. The handrails, black on chrome,
are rubber belts that serve to synchronize
the plantar with the palm. Beneath a dome
of sectioned glass the moving stairs ascend
though no one rides those stainless teeth of steel.
I squint my eyes, and lines of custom bend
till reverie is intimately real.

A magic robot beanstalk arrows here,
engendered by the seeds of human luck
and germinated under moonshine. Near
as station platform brick, forever stuck
below a ceiling limited in height,
it circles close but cannot touch the light.