Midnight Bus

Yawning is like howling–
you cannot see what’s in front of you.
The fire pit devours winter’s oak;
the oak speaks quietly, removing only its jacket.

The cities where no relatives live, only friends,
have left you speechless.
The painted canyons.
A sprig of metallic sage in the pocket.

The emptiness of saints,
the one I thought I was–
rock faces, arms, legs,
a lupine tail wagging in the summer grass.

The cicadas in August,
like a Ravel daydream.
A distant buzzing hunger,
a schoolteacher leaves her meeting early
to rake marks on her lover’s back.
A shudder under the mountains
followed by a grief like no other.

Still, something makes you stay,
to see how the play ends–
without you–
like a priest on a midnight bus
watching the moon make the fields ache.

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2 responses to “Midnight Bus

  1. A very good poem. Emptiness is the natural state of all of us including saints, who differ from the rest of us only by knowing it.

    Liked by 1 person

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