all trains are dead trains
             moving in the same direction.

a phalanx of stoned wind
             bored of your talk
             stuffs your mouth with its hand.

there. there is the quiet of winter
             the suicide of February
             you’ve been trying to avoid.

the weight of people is clear glass
             shattering with every step.

the city tells us we are not natural.

we think we’ve stopped
             leaving babies in the forest.

drinking our own water
             dense with people weight
             sticky with people.

we will die by doing so
             and also die by not.