Zephyr Blues

My right palm
Is a memory
In the boiling pool
Of my own back.

My left fingers,
A steel slide
Tracing the wet line
Of your nape
Across mine.

Can you hear it?

I fever drowse
In a westward bed,
Two-bodied alloy,
Still red with no sign
Of cooling.

I swear this is no ploy:
We have laid
The track.

I chew the slow train sound
In the center of our names,
And see for the first time
That ache
Is my hidden spine,
The fastest route,
A certain wreck.

And yet
There is
Your mouth.

The rails.
The roll.

I wail to warn the town.


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