We

morning’s bus with its window of heads                
torn and split from their beds of coughed                  
desire                  
faces kicked with sheets of city streets                  
I take you with me under in my stockings                  
walking in my heels my slip my bra                  
I am no single excuse                  
one of the bunched needles                  
lost in the straw with bodies such as I                  
kept in the chapped flaw of days                    
hiding beneath the sky                  
in the ways of useless routine                  
reduced as you were as they are                  
feeling it under my breath                  
our eyes threaded                    
and hemmed into death