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.


of this floating 

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

          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.


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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