Passenger on a Dream & Between Ankles the Sun is Our Own, poems published by Caroline Morrell

I hear it in my sleep
a line rearing up from the static
a woman
speaking of railroad earth,
the path with ribs,
as she spreads her own thoughts
between them like flesh,
the conductor having once reached out,
smudged the milkweed
he believed to have been combed through her hair—
and what is that gap in my day?
Her memory is loosening, inventing
portions of the station,
a trail of footsteps
that dust off like pollen
into swarms of forgiveness and gnat.

is Our Own

Between ankles the sun is our own
And between harvests the ankle;
Between trees an anar darkens to own
And between darkness a bloodstream;
Between hearsay and illustration a month will own
And between months a dry simoom;
Between ankles the mountain is our own
And between mountains the Persepolis dust;
Who watches pomegranates at the rim of memory
round;
Who watches the mind sit still in pomegranates?