Little odd love poem. I think of railroad tracks and rusty water towers:
Darling, we've crept through the bluegrass & we've slipped in the waste slurry, we dug breakfast out of dumpsters & we stole fourteen-hundred dollars from the Grace Street Laundromat. I think it's time we made a child, the way we make starlight out of a bent & pin-pocked Coke can.
Mathias Svalina
Fence magazine 2006
Voices. I hear them.
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