not the millions


Where I sit, the landscape flutters, composed
mainly of tiles and pipes. “No safety.” Sounds

like the missing part of a gun. Remember how
You held my hair when I vomited up the gun? My seat

is orange; most are orange or yellow, soft as
ice or your uncle’s rotten teeth. Now you’re

in Staten Island, I’m in Brooklyn, both of us
underground but only one of us moving. Nothing

connects. Numbers increase, recede. This grey
tube is over one hundred and fifty years old.

A different man’s voice garbles through the loud-
speakers each time. “Doors” repeats. (I do not

think there are doors for you, or perhaps there
are only doors.) You’re sitting barefoot on my last

pony, swinging your long blonde toes with their
black nailpolish. Next stop 135. At least, that’s

what I like to tell myself. Over 20 thousand windows,
looking out at nothing but shadow, sparks, and the

occasional missing star. Next to your old place,
a streetlight hummed like an almost perfect sphere,

remember? Still, it was nothing like the moon. 775
miles of tracks. I liked to lean over the fence and touch

the hot glass, like I liked to touch your green velvet
couch, right next to where your blue cat was sleeping.
Remember, you used to tell me, there is no safety in numbers.


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