Poem
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Trains in Madrid
Steamless, it is no longer the cumulus-
there is no rain here, just the curved
parallelism of steel. This is direction,
not the weather vanes of gears.
These seats are paved in faux
satin and the woman beside me
slides in sleep. There is nothing
to catch her but my bare shoulders.
Silence is something forgotten while
the green peppered landscape of summer
is stretched out of this forward moving metal.
x-posted to
fuelandflame