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Poetry

Great Western Rail

By Esme Bell

 

On a train, it is easy

To feel smooth and tubular 

As glass or fake air 

That has never breathed 

Freely; but it only takes 

The sun to crack  

The rim of clouds and weep 

Orange tears – like Turner’s  

Eyes are bleeding and paradise 

Is lost after all – before you’re 

Crying too, unmoored, and rollerskate 

Into the ending of a day. 

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