You are Boston,
bay windows.

Crow dove hair,
your hands are troublesome.

You are throaty trill,
loped gait.

You are organized streets,
a well-laid plan.

You move me like a train,
I am rocking softly between the rails.

You are tremble,
you are quake.

Rushing scenery,
a penny in my mouth.

You are wild violet,
falling sand.

You are the quiet under the bridge,
smooth teeth, false start.

Pull the shredded lace from your teeth
so I can see you beam.

                                                                                                    --MeLaina Elise Evans

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