hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to mountains and to the train. To hills and hills to see things from. At dusk. What a whipping it does coming and the train spits at the sky and I just run
* published in Cab/Net 2