Two Poems

from Bus North

Rural night—the lights off
in the distance glint like forsythia
petals scattered in a parking lot.
Anticipation is an act of perception.


*

This road, an erasure only keeping
the spaces
between      every word
blacked out


*

A brush of cloud annotates 
the empty sky, less color 
than blue, drawing a bird 
to parse the field’s scratched margins.


*

Image 
of this floating 
world:

     sky like rippled water, clouds
leveling mountains—below in shadow,
thousands of thickening black fields:

     nothing
          if not asphalt—

          half of everywhere
a road or parking lot


*

Distance is a measurement of time.


*

Morning—an afternoon cloudlessness
already encompassing
the treeline; cattle
compacted together,
pluralize the shade.




Seth

My friend is a sycamore.
Mornings, his branches disperse
leaves, which are pinned
to mud by needles, held
in place with brown tape.


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