Quarter Past

Quarter past four
We’ll reach the ocean's door.
Summits rise and fall.
Jagged cliffs do call.

We thread this rusty needle,
Lick frayed ends
And see saw
Up and down

The edge of our little town.
Gears groan and whir.
The welded burn of metal
Smells of why won’t settle

On going back.
Our glossy voices crack
With travel wheels
On gravel heels.

Foamy blue horizon,
Open veins reveal.
Hung our hopes to prize on
Riding how this feels.


9/23/20