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   a u r a l o r a

--- 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.

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