Throated calls of distant trains echo,
Resonating as the soft enticing bellow
Catches in your head and spreads below
To neck and lung and torso.

Spare me; the voice hangs low,
lower than the hooked undertoe
Of the washed up sweep and sow
Reaped and reheaped on the shoulders of a poet as of yet

That temping, preemptive glow
That picks away at your soul
Drags a slow scraping breath cold,
And now returns above to lick the heavens,
born from the burn,
and bold.



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