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The Lyric Poem Prize

Terri McCord

 

Asleep Near Tracks

The train whistles a blow-
by-blow of current

scented with cut lemons

as I roll from a warm grove.

This wake is a broken yolk,

My eyes yellowed—
      jaundice or magic—
two suns to match up
to one, a tunnel
envisioned for sleep again,

the train’s main light
silenced by miles,
electricity run underground, undercover.

My eyelids are small hills,
mounds I count      and cross over,
two lemon shapes that could smell

so sweet if no train passed through
this citrus sleep.