{revision, revision}

lies about wanting

train brakes are only a lament in translation
and you are not going to die any more

than the digital clock will begin to tick;
it’s a small comfort, but a real one.

your ribcage leans out toward the baby,
each bone a finger, skin a thin balloon

the mouse in your belly racing the tide,
the sweet acid churning, a small ocean

lean back. the child grips his mother’s neck
like an empty bottle, no letter, what you’d call

a lost cause. desire fermenting, your bad apple status
never so much in jeopardy, what’s going on.

there are five types of fog. you move
as the train moves, the metal cool

in your palm. say it. advection.
radiation. frontal, upslope, sea. nothing

in your history suggests a destination
that will not also involve both hunger

and cloud. the knife in your bag itches
to hack a hole and crawl through, a deal

between the plexiglass and your not so
collapsible bones, an uneven trade

for the good air waiting.

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