Like a blind man exploring the curves of a body,
We traverse the breastbone of a land of contours.
The depth of the landscape has swallowed me utterly;
I feel embryonic, safe, until out we are forced
Out through the glass doors opening to frost-
A hothouse flower left out in a storm.
The mountains surround me and whisper, “You’re lost”...
I would rather be lost than be blind in the warmth.
We think we are the lookers out,
But we are the observed, in our display case
Of glass and steel. A child runs, laughs, shouts,
Markets on the rails, a fire, a sense of place.
We are the babies in this land, fed with hands
Of silver service. Incubated as we travel up the tracks,
Coca is given to cope with the higher lands.
My tongue tingles and I relax, sit down, sit back.
Market on the tracks
Katie
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