You tell me what we can carry
from these hills and across the creek
where fish scales nick our feet
and flame azaleas serve as guides.
 
 
My arms full of wilted forsythia,
I listen for a dog’s howl or train’s roar,
but the squall swallows all sound.
 
 
We run faster in bedraggled dresses
while this town bites at our heels
and reduces the road signs behind us
to scrap metal so we can never return.
 

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