By the Tracks

I want to touch it all. The greens play with the browns of the earth. Don’t you want to know what the leaves of that bramble bush feel like near the railroad tracks? The flowing metal against the harshest of stems? I do constantly. I want to grasp my surroundings. The walls of that house look stippled; they must be coarse. The machines are always smooth. Smooth tracks, smooth bodies, smooth movement. They have oil in the gears, direction as purpose. We stop to touch the bramble bushes by the side of the railroad tracks. We look to the sky and try to tell what time of day it is. The machines are already late.

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