I Get In The Second Car From The South, Trying To Sit Under The Square Of The Sun.

Nobody's letting their eyes contact, but I see a short-cut pudge of a man get on at the next stop, cheeks swollen from the cold. "The Big Book Of Mazes" against the chest.

"There's nothing like a fat black baby," he says, "staring at you from behind glass."

My face changes from the overcast fading off my spot.

Three-hundred feet down the track, a girl with ice-blue shadows around her eyes moves from the back of the car and adjusts her small-lined skirt, and says, "I want to find a man who'll scream the words 'Jag Rear Ut Min Sjal! Allt Skall Bort!!!' on top of a roof, attracting traffic."

I take my earphones out, little circles wired to nothing. And the things I think scrape against each other.

Miles on and the car packs itself out with a mass of clean suits and stolen shirts.

An old woman in all-wool scratches the side of the seat, her phone number in new graffiti.

But someone's lit one of the chairs on fire. So the automatics kick in and everything's soaked. With whiplash, the driver halts the line, grabs the radio through the sparks, and howls everyone off.

Rain, looks like.

Good night for a nuke.

I close my eyes, imagining warm geometry.