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.

late poem Friday.

Hey, so:
I kind of decided (as I was sitting on the bus to Portland, Maine, and realizing there was no way I would get access to a computer by midnight) that the crux of the whole "poem a day" thing is writing a poem a day -- i.e., the most important thing is having the poem written by midnight, and not necessarily posted by midnight. But I realized that having decided to put each poem on a blog entails a performative aspect to the project, indicating that the audience (y'all) might be more important than I give it credit for. I tend to make seemingly firm but ultimately nebulous resolutions -- in fact, almost constantly -- and wind up wavering around quite a bit, but in this case the dimensions of the resolution aren't only in my own head for once. So, what are your thoughts? Should it be an iron deadline of posting by midnight, or is writing by midnight o.k.?

Without further ado, today's poehm:


"Poem for Jeremiah 2:2"

From the bus vestibule come the smells of fries and vinegar
and sweet false fruit. The building is bent on erasing itself
tile by tile from the minds of those who pass through it,
a place fixed firm in grimy placelessness.
From the bus I watch the light-pricked spires rise
high over the river into the hollow sky.
Under the elevated highway
the cars in the lot gleam like packed fish.
The townhouses light their narrow windows
the trees their attendants slim as girls
fanning their hair out wide in the light.
From a dark window peers the God of Deuteronomy
weary with absence, recalling the years of the betrothal,
forty years of fierce love and complaint--
enough years to fade hale youth,
not yet to send a lover to his grave,
a life younger than my father's life.
The fabled God speaks on awhile
muttering under wheels dark
on the dark road, and retreats.
I won't address the sweet subject of love,
two bodies confused in sleep,
the moon on the duvet, a bright marquee,
it is no palliative;
our loves have failed to match the films
in which all men are handsome and strong
and the women clarion as summer mornings
where nothing has yet gone wrong,
and nothing is at stake,
and the sun gleaming on the hills
sits like gold silt on every hair,
recalling to us the mercies of our youth
boundless and fair, and the whole bright earth is our bride-price.