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On the Red Line
At altitude when longing surpasses airspeed
you notice what you missed before
lightning that never strikes the ground
rain that vanishes mid-sky
what might have been a passing aurora
I was a midnight busker on Boston’s Red Line
singing for trains that never kept time
lips tendering the echoes of the station
scratched lightly by the wools of my imperfections
Yet I felt the chance and ring of the covering night
the possibility of unbidden forgiveness
from those who knew better the melodies
and paused on the dirty concrete
nonetheless
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