“Hot Rails”

■ By Rob Lindquist / Contributed Out of some nonexistent past, Perhaps the creosote, Heated by a desert sun, Circling in wind devils. Off railroad ties, Half buried in the sand. Out on the desert, The rusty rails Creak and ping. A high sun raises up noises From another time; Sounds of worn and Polished rims of endless Wheels that bucked and chucked Through the Joshua trees, Banged over stumpy bridges Across white sand river beds: Wheels of iron Rolling east and west, Clicking loudly over the joints, Shaking the mountains, Waking slinky day-sleepers Under red rocks; Walking old spikes out of black wood. And they talk to each other, the

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