How Far and How Long by Bina Perino

I traced rolling train cars
from a car window, counting
each one until they passed,
or they smeared together indefinitely.

Distance traveled over time amounts
to speed; speed is relative
and we are along for the ride, moving
to never return. I have grown

sixty-five inches above ground,
and my feet passed like train cars
from Leander, up I-35, to Denton,
totaling two-hundred twelve miles.

Four-hundred seventy-four days
my dresser stays in the corner, but
the clothes within have been tossed out,
given away, bought again. My heart

broke seven-hundred fifty-one
days ago, and I choke on memories
along Bernard and Carroll,
but each season soothes them down.

The train cars wail for a time and place
they once knew, never to be the same.


Bina Perino is a University of North Texas student, studying creative writing. Her work can be found in the North Texas Review, Arts of Thought, Awakened Voices, Jungle Tender, and Sonder Midwest. Her work is inspired by her experiences, emotions, and inquiries.

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