Whipping past black spruces and whites ones, too
we weave; fast enough for falling thistles
not to land in our hair.
I am not cold
But you are.
Little complainer, I love you.
A scarf in August, shielding your soft face,
blinding you to the mountains
where I imagine we are going.
Everyone else is inside
Reading fantasy or eating soup.
The back carriage is open
To three blunt sides, as I grip
the railing and your small hand.
They say it’s twice the size of Texas.
I say we sleep in the dining car
and grow up on the rails.
Together.
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Megjegyzés küldése