A girl rocks back

in the worn vinyl

cushion of the city bus

 

and passes a small

airliner from hand

to hand, a secret:

 

her thumbs split

the fuselage along

a thin axis, releasing

 

its terrible innards,

the wings retracting

into barbed arms,

 

the nose cone doing

a quick snap-turn

so the hidden mouth

 

baring its silver teeth

clicks into place.

As the bus doors

 

open with a hydraulic

sigh, the lights

of the match factory

 

form a constellation,

a multitude of

stars, unwinking.

 

 

Originally published in Barrow Street