It's morning, rush hour,
and people jam themselves
onto the downtown 2--
to say they look like sardines
would be too obvious,
they are softer, yet
more rigid-- a dozen tongues
in a kissing person's mouth.
On the street it's getting
warmer, and a young man
leaned against a railing says
honey
to me, so gently as I pass,
as if we were waking up
together, as if
he were cradling my face,
that I'm surprised enough
to stop and look at him,
even though I don't mean to,
and all the little birds scatter
like the teeth of a drunk
when he hits the floor.
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