Trans-Siberian Movement Length 1 She learned to be perfectly still while moving. She had been moving eternity. Pulling away from Moscow station, away from still ground that cements. Anna, she says to herself, one way is the answer. She used to need to move things herself like furniture, flowers, shade. Now she sits, backwards to watch the leaving. Forward to watch the ending. All trains are the same, this way, Anna, why come back. Smoking & swaying blue skirts. Button-down shirts. It doesn’t matter if she understands a little English, French or Chinese. Unable to define, she redefines. She only needs immigrants, from one side of her body to the other. The train moves for her, underneath, the shadow of a moving commotion. Sometimes she forgets to feel the railing under her hands. Anna, you’re solid. Away from roads that create decision. Hour into multiples. Shade is a flickering object, not a slowing gain. Length 10 The train waits for no one, not even her. 2 minute stops or 30. Maintenance or wheel changing. Moves the landscape. The trees. Lake Baikal. Whole bodies of nature & language. All of it beneath her sensitive heels. It moves—she doesn’t—she never has to stop. Anna come back, she says, so you can begin one way again. Length 50 She likes to greet the Frenchmen. Hear the language of love, though she doesn’t understand. Anna, it never matters what is said. How language moves anyway without meaning. When the train makes scheduled stops, she expects something to change. The same old women sell potatoes. Sometimes she thinks she should learn their names. Beyond the train, she doesn’t want anymore constants. She used to laugh when other girls said they wanted to be swept off their feet. Until she got swept. What happened: She forgot how to move for herself. Length 90 Her favorite fragment is the tunnel. Cut of mountains. Nights cannot compare to how it rains. She wishes away the tunnels. She half opens her window to feel the punch shaking & shrouding her valence in white. Not minding the glare, the wind between thoughts, the moments between her hands. She avoids to speak to immigrants, undoes a button or two.