When I read of a ribcage being sawn

then cracked open
                                  I think of walking alleys

lined with glass, holding water. The squid can never close

its eyes and I keep finding another station

to get lost in, the rain pinning me, getting colder

we drink our fill and eat more

the taste of sesame oil coats our tongues

a drum pounds and a woman hums, sings,

plucks strings, silks arrayed around her
                                  and here I am

a fistful of muscle in my hands

two litres of blood at my feet