those handles swing in their place
a train moving moves
some arms are seen with some hands
holding them inside the tight body
of two doors there is space
for her hair to shadow on my sleeves
a curve of an elbow on my stomach
like a pot of solid mud stood solders
outside a house and becomes street
toes are a possibility we are touching
everywhere skin is air no clothes
can water this crowd into a flower glove
and we touch everywhere except
above where handles are there hanging
for some to hold in between
stations
