--- S A R A H   S C H E C K T E R

Never knew he lisped 
until yesterday
in a backlit room
black door in position to fly open
he nearly whistled
as he explained his Polaroid roundhouses
and switching yards, not embarrassed but
—his snowblond eyelashes beat furiously—
I was.

Fingernails scratched blackboards
dust squeaked in its motes
railroad ties bent in the sound of ths
thin tracks jarred awry in this articulation.

Then his speech became an incantation to me
his ss breathing, swimming down
on the gold of a gold afternoon
a hiss
drowns slowly
at the ocean floor
on the palate of undular sand
fluent understory of kelp forests.

I am thinking
toward the depths of my dream
of trains in the morning
and trains at night
in an alveolar swish they pass
they path me towards your faith
my tongue waiting for your next word.