On the Metro after beers and mezcal

at Miralto overlooking all of D. F.

Robin leans in with a warning. Once,

on this line, Pantitlán towards

Tacubaya, a man boards the train

high probably on paint-thinner

carrying a bag of broken glass into

which he mashes his scarred fist and

forearm while the whole car watches

or doesn’t. The girl sitting across

from him, five or six, asks What is he

doing and her mother answers Thinking

things that are not to be thought.