I'm in Brooklyn, or its subterranean arteries, and everything wavers and trembles as I blink my eyes. The sleeping kid in a suit across me has been replaced by a girl watching something on her phone and laughing about it. I'm not sure where I'm going until I slowly start to wake up more and I look out the train window and realize I'm two stops from home, already, manhattan's lower half having-passed-me-by.
and then: like being woken up by the sunrise in a train, like looking at your own hand in wonder, that gesture. openmouthed, maybe. tea bags blooming crimson in mugs, gently moored by their strings, drifting in hot water, circling, hovering, rotating, tumbling.