Cliff Poems

Ride

The Tokyo subway starts early in the morning
with a beep and a fit. It carries passengers to
work offices and fish markets. In both, the rotten
smell of death lingers. I approach it as I do any other,
with silent smiles and low expectations.
My nose cavities, my eye sockets, my soul,
have been burned out with untrustworthy poisons.
The train shakes, my body still notices.