The Tunnel

There are banshees
waiting down the track
as we pass by Angel.
The cargo is docile,
the air is thin.
We are weakened
with the compression.
Heads slump on necks
like overloaded servos,
faces yellow in the light,
as if a yolk was broken
somewhere inside.
Hunger and shadows
make a restless motion
along the dim carriage.
From an access tunnel
a leering face flashes.
It cannot be much further.
From down the tunnel
comes a kind of music
that cowers in the air.
We pass by Angel again.
There is something wrong.