Night Train to Vancouver
Beverly A. Jackson

Outside the moose feed
alongside the train tracks.
In our observation bubble,
we observe each other’s vulnerable
skin, pulses throbbing in our wrists
tango in the dark, to clack clack wheels,
awash in woody haloes of Canadian moonlight.

Bleed every drop, slice the pale place
where no sun kisses, let it go, sluicing
down the leg, rivulets of red, crimson palms,
pale pink beaches in your eyes,
stained by snows of Banff.

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