We think about it while fluid from our heads is sipped
in upward motions. She is a coward unsheathed,
whose lips ride this way, abandoned. The metaphysics
of her scalp burns her hair clean.

The stations are sliced evenly into her arms, cold
(like the summer was wet). And in the city,
the snow shuts us down.

For the record, the lights from her eyes flicker so spastically
that we are blinded in the dark.

There are trains that sneak into us like her
and the tracks that carry them, bury themselves into our wombs, damp.