The Procedure

She drinks straight from the bottle a full cut
of lemon and salt. It's supposed to make
her insides visible, so she can hold up a kidney 
leaf and pretend to read it like a tarot card, pluck 
a timeline from out of a beautiful garnet 
vein. She could do all this and more, but she's
content to finish only what's been allotted. 
There's a train that runs all over the countryside, 
but comes back to the same station.  As with any
ritual, timing is important. Measures matter, 
more isn't better. The ticket counter's painted 
a bloated grey. The ceiling fan's coated 
with dust. She's allowed to wait on a little 
bench on the platform. She can knit or read 
novels, write notes, have idle thoughts, 
nod off until she's awakened. When 
she does, it will be as if no time had even 
passed, though the clock on the tower 
will be wearing a different face.

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