The sky is different here—
on the equator everything
looks big as a planet.
I’ll be waiting at the tracks,
out back, our secret place
where clouds stack thicker than water,
sky milk-heavy over dark pine teeth.
Metal on the wind like a rolling moan,
scrape of steel, rust in the air.
Lungs pull more, oxygen-red,
down here on the equator.
Nerves tighten and thrum.
The soul escapes like a sigh,
vapour-trail lost in the scorch.
The flat sway of the sea oats
like a cool balm, wiregrass rolling.
I’ll be waiting at the tracks,
taking in the scents,
deer tongue, wax myrtle,
hot metal, red dirt.
You warned me not to care
too much—I hear you and I care
enough to know that some dangers
deserve to be swallowed whole.
If you need me I’ll be dust.
Look for me inside your bones,
thick as blood, kissing marrow.