Metro
It is a bloated heart, valves sucking open
for millions of sleepwalkers. Hawkers
clog platforms in clots. Skins
windbitten and eyes ablaze, they swim
the crowd, form bulges in the bloodstream.
The platforms have doors onto the trains
and on opening, thousands surge out only
to be sucked back in like the sea. A man
begs on all fours and his head, forning
a fifth limb is grounded. A virus
in the channel's vacuole, he no longer
looks where his kopecks come from.
He has a story about when he danced
Swan Lake, white as a phagocyte
and young too. Now his eyes glaze
to a bottle's curve, holding it to
the light for its dregs.
He is young again in the bottle, forever
preserved, the two-headed baby
in a glass, one head eating the other.
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