The train loosens its gears,
hissing like the snapping
open of a soda can.

A blister squelches
underfoot, as he trudges
through gunk, cigarette
bits performing calisthenics

in the air. Everyone swaps
breath until the strains of
mint gum and coffee, seaweed,
miso soup etchings, settles at

the bottom of his lungs
and flutters up again.

He mauls his
handkerchief by mouth,
aching for his limbs
to collapse into linen

so he can take up
the same space as
a slip of fabric,

and because his bones
would be made of silk,
never coarse fibers,
he would not be
passed from hand to

waxen hand,
but rather pocketed at
the breast, snug above
the left ventricle.

Next stop,
West 116th Street.

Voices, voices; bees,
crawling clockwise
around the earlobe.

He cannot grip the silver
pole but leaves instead
a stratosphere of air
around the smeared

metal, where the dust
mites peck at his palm.

The centipede train
lurches to a halt, emptying
its intestine of glut.

Jostling shoulder,
an exhale. He stoops

down to tie his
shoe as he would
undress a lover.