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.
Todd Smith 