| Poetry |
Baby, it’s warm outside
Tonight the trains
howl out in a language
of rust, and somewhere
a picnic is sleeping.
Tomorrow, with the grass
sweating and the ease
of skin and skin: you will
unfold like blankets
for overnight guests.
We are tricky and slippery
and reborn in dew-drenched
August. The heat screams
with a tea-kettle whistle.
The parts I have hidden
burn with an engine's
precision. I am--
and you are-- some
kind of conductor.
I am bound for
somewhere, whenever
we get off
this ride.
by K Weber
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