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 he 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

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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