[Context: Buffalo Nickel]
The train is saying. The train, if drifting. The train, an iron blue. She collected water in hollowed-out bone and chased the sun with glass. The fat-cheeked day sucked the cacti and splintered wood dry, and further out, the hills swept up from the dust like the full cloak of a queen. When she listened beyond the wind, Conti-Mare thought she could hear the pleasant whisper of streams, and the green smell of leaves collapsed the thin cough of the desert’s breath. The tracks disappeared into the sand like the anchor of a sunken ship. She knelt down to sniff the rust.
The train is saying.
The train
will come
upon a desert of ears.
-Published in Pilgrimage
