cold brew

i soak my bones in your throat.
it does not make soup. 
we take the train into the beast's
little knee. kneel in the museum,
notebooks in our hands like all prophets do.
the sky has earbuds in. the train 
is only as long as we need. or maybe
it is not enough & we are pulling
our lives like field ox. a stretched arm.
a candle lit behind each eye. i want
to be swallowed & turned into 
a mosquito. i want to pierce my tongue
into the moon. my hands are cold
& this winter is thick. do i fall asleep
in the puddle? does the straw led
to a carousel or is this the kind of journey
that takes a tooth away? i park the car
on the wrong side of the war. the police
do not know what we do behind
the laundry mat right beneath the 
"no weeping" sign. we buy gas ten dollars
at a time. drink cold brew at the little shop
that rattles when the train comes. 
cheeks flushed. our one friend just started
experimenting with eyelash extensions. 
i stay awake all night. spit hummingbirds
into the sink. jars of sticky old spices buzzing
above the stove. you sleep on the window
where the trees should be.