She is an octopus,
waving tentacles; an uncertain body
whose blind eyes are river water
reflecting smoke and grey sky,
whose muscle pumps
red amber green, her juices
busy and intermingled
around the glassy centre.
Never tiring, she shines
all day and night until the break
of next; her blood might thin
but never stop its journey.
She is transit and destination,
epithelial indifference, little thought
of class, or the trade her designs
have sought to build upon.
Sometimes I reach her choking heart
(though not without expenditure);
but always, home will be the skirts
of this cruel and thoughtless creature.