The Outskirts

The dirt keeps climbing into her shoes.
Powder, shit-brown
baked by the high brow sun.
It paints her world and frames her,
as she walks along sedentary railroad tracks.
Question is, who's
driving the train she after.
Her inner thigh itches, measurements
neat and complete.
Not any question the dirt
will be there when she rounds the corner.
The light will grace her, drown in her
-the God, the One.
Stuck there in the might and folly,
the mired insides of her shoes.
Tap to tap, sun licks her lips
and bounding,
the birds set her into position.
Submission- the mission is clear.
As smoke rises bilaterally from her creation,
the trains birth noise in the distance.

M. Lucia