On the Amtrak I break off from myself and slide down on the slippy slope of my tongue, keep going in the tube so like a luge all the way down, hang a left, hooking my thumbs in my pant loops making myself small smaller smallest so I don’t get stuck in any of the sticky and the big I is keeping time and I love to feel the way we rise, we rumble and now it’s getting pretty cold so I know we are arriving at the place and littlest I puts on a parka, big puffy thing which this whole time was smooshed under an arm because there’s only so much I’m signing up to withstand and now I’m only about a mile away and it’s so cold icicles are growing from my hair all the way down to my ankles and I break off a piece to use as a walking stick and then I think why not, and break off another piece and now I’m cross country skiing to the place, parka on, ice-skis in hand, skates slung over my shoulder and I get to the place which is so cold as to be painful but safe because it is frozen fathoms over. I throw the skis away and lace up. It is sometimes nice to skate in this old familiar place, a kind of freedom, a treat in a way, to indulge in this old pain of being without you where we left off

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