Peephole

night’s oceans underneath,
the men came to see,
loving ersatz lingo
so all could peer,
though no one knew
when the rift would open;
all were numbed
with intelligence,
eager to look
and they saw new worlds;
each day the lorries would pull,
latches would open and
cement would pour,
old buildings quaking with the heft,
oozing with new liquid,
and the men, older now and wearing hats,
would bend, their backs struggling
to hold steady,
their eyes pinched
and cracked to see,
the ladders long and wooden,
seeming to be miles below,
and each workman wore
his red bandanna across
one eye, their strong
arms lifting wheelbarrows,
dumping liquid granules
into the pit.