i always write poems on the bus

from boston to new york.
thinking a lot about what gives life meaning and where i am headed (literally, in the case of riding a bus).


--

The sun in the wet clouds to the west
stirs in blanched fire over everything
even the billboard ad for cheap cremation
with a breakfast sandwich special on the back.
Appended to a truck cabin
a little heater coil to keep out the freeze that's coming.
A bus hurtles past with its lights on early and the moon out early
stamps itself over the vines
that climbed the highway barrier and die.
Up ahead someone is proclaiming his love
on a vanity license plate.
A clutter of black wings
scatters the air and moves off
and I who love nothing I cannot decipher
howl north through sudden hundreds of trees.