The word rustles at first, rattles
through a pile of leaves and stops
abruptly, makes your teeth chatter.
It’s sharp like shards of ice.
I am traveling on the train of Speak,
the hesitant iron machine
that only travels on smooth tracks
because the conductor refuses,
because the conductor fears
to go where the sky is dark purple,
where nothing is what it seems.
Speak, such a harsh, cold word.
Who made me walk through the door
of this train called speak.