Like a Rumor

Moonlight is braille,

pointed beams patterned for

hands with eyes.

 

On the prairie,

the hellbent train pierces the cool,

callous night like a needlegun.

The town will loop the gold

through in the morning.

 

Hands clasped as though to pray,

I cannot read that foreign,

bright light writing

on my cool, white face.

 

My hands are blind.

But the dark slips into my

ears like a rumor,

the utter loss that is my birthright.

 

 

This poem will be revised.

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