were it p o ssible

I could glimmer like cold light, fickering shapes on a passing train, ecstatic, shifting, impossible

If we were infinitesimally small: only light hitting aluminum and dust, foating, titillating, fast riding on an unseen current; that which the dog barks at. Unsettling and sparse.

To another worn out backpack on a seat fecal matter on sanitized skin do not lean on the closing door, we’re all stolen in the blue fashing light. Marijuana stained, acrid blue on chrome.

Our capillaries humming underneath a swarm of skin. If we, bokeh dots, teeming with entropic fervor hurtling further in impossibly cool tubes. Hard to swallow.

I would pour through the ceiling above you, tongue lapping corroded iron as I drip rustingly onto the platform, dribbling down rivets and bolts. Hardened globules of sage paint weeping in harmony with me.

A sharp glint on your periphery.

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