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it was on a train, or maybe a bus—
something loud and swaying—
i saw her, writing myths
in the window frost;
damaged, fragile,
oblivious.

the two of us
disconnected,
separate, lonely;
the distance growing with
every bus stop bell, or
was it the whistle of a lonesome train?

 
This poem originally appeared in the 2009 collection Sixty-Six.