I have left motes of myself, All
Along the New England coastline.
I have dragged most of myself along unaware.
But in retracing the routes, roots and branches
Of the train lines north,
I find that this spiritual dander
Has clung to the trestles, terminals, and geography.
And it pulls at me until a resonance
Begins to shake the land.
Torrents of time flood with ruptured rest,
And I am awash in breathless longing,
Nurturing hidden meanings in older copies of myself.
As if that is the authentic, and I have been caught
Slipping myself into another's life.
The chronology is easy enough to see,
But my footprints fade quickly.
So I close my eyes and cover my ears
In headphones, hoping that electronic interference
And the percussive movement of the train
Will deaden this solipsistic magnetic field
At least long enough to sleep.
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