My bags are heavy against the weight of the train
it grates against steel and I
long for continuous days which flow
into one another. Instead
my life is a work of fragments.
Strings connected by inevitable distances.
I am lost in the fury of transit,
writing my poems in a
dark room on paper I cannot see.
Memory bites the new tongue
and I dream of home on a used pillow.
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Excerpting Senior Writers: Mac McAnulty '12