Like silk and soft cliches, these roses dance
Right here, on this train to San Antonio
They laugh about mundane delays,
Wrought-iron tracks, reports on weather
Slow days instead take on their scent
Time in arms
Plied with color, rejecting cold
Warm and free and so cocooned
Arrival evokes no excitement
No apathy, no thought
All is melted, faded, a watermark
Except this focal moment of jade-free cavorting
On our way to Texas through this smooth pillow of a night
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