A tremor shook under the stage
The script book slipped between the cushions,
The numbers to letters, goosebumps to sweaters.
Everyone with a reason to catch the breeze
But hoping not to catch a cold,
Holding on to metal wings with precious cargo
Beyond where a car could ever go.
Desert highways were arteries on dry skin
That cracked and collected at every city
And left tracks against the layered tissue,
Telling the stories in two separate currents,
Assuring each other that they'd have the courage.
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