on the bus home in February,
streetlight refracts
through the condensation
on the glass,
pollinating raindrops.
Orange scales glow
like wet nebula,
melting sirens to a cotton hum.
I drift into the black
spaces between things,
dripping into
vacant
gaps.
Without linoleum floors,
cash machines,
stale 5pm faces —
horses spin on carousels,
coins turn in breathless wells.