:

A man.
    Inside,
he is weeping.
    A crumpled
envelope
    in his hand.

A hundred steps
    up, he moves
on the escalator.
    Up to the columns
and the bright hall
    —all kinds of men
are floating
    with lowered
heads
    up from the subway—

I see he is losing
    the ground
that was under
    his feet.
He is floating past
    marble wreaths
on the walls
    of this splendid
white vault . . .

    But he doesn't want
to see this
    marvelous hall
in motion.
    His eyes
—no one must notice!—
    are fighting
against the daggers
    of tears. . .
Should I
    go to him,
perhaps say—
    "Anything wrong?"

    No good.
No slow-moving talk
    is going to
help him.
    But perhaps—
poetry
    would?
A poem,
    rushing
hot to the rescue—
    to take away
grief,
    the burden
of worry,
    even the
greatest
    pain—

to help him
get his foot back
    on the threshold
to make him
    rise
        back to life,

            on the small stairs
                of its lines !