The iron circle slick with rain

The iron circle, slick with rain,

a wet, black coin,

pressed into the street's domain.

Its pattern, circles leading in,

then lines that cross,

a silent, metal din.

Like maps of nowhere, drawn by hand,

beneath this lid,

lies all the buried land.

A hidden world of pipes and stone,

of forgotten things,

left all alone.

I stepped across

this sealed-up gate,

and felt the weight

of what I couldn't state.