Baby, it’s warm outside

Tonight the trains
howl out in a language 
of rust, and somewhere
a picnic is sleeping.

Tomorrow, with the grass
sweating and the ease
of skin and skin: you will 
unfold like blankets
for overnight guests.

We are tricky and slippery
and reborn in dew-drenched
August.  The heat screams
with a tea-kettle whistle.

The parts I have hidden
burn with an engine's
precision.  I am--
and you are-- some 
kind of conductor.

I am bound for 
somewhere, whenever
we get off
this ride.

by K Weber

email:  k.michelle.weber@gmail.com