Reduced Function

Heat-wrapped and hit semi-conscious on a late week morning,

snow icing the highs of the verge and

the dawn candescent below a film of purple cloud:

comatose we sit,

eyes stinging and noses dripping,

hands ungloved, glasses cleaned, scarves dumped and tissues pulped,

snapping our fingers one by one,

the carriage an array of trunks held firm and upright

as we nod lightly with the motion,

the air unrelenting, powerfully narcotic and

drowning us silently before the day.