My life is the need
the telling you
it’s this.
The wait for the end
to end in something all over again
to end.

Heaven hands to handles around
bus metal shoot cold shrapnel up fingers
when the streets of the usual routes
jump
to tell something new. That lingers.
Ah, her expression through air
has showed me time.
It was hope—easy dizziness, speeches
bouncing off the sky’s edge for
destitute souls, long lost in whirring
sea-sharp staring…

Yes, I have claimed nothing but the battle.
It was white branded on the bus’s windows,
those other silent faces sitting being
subsumed in her airy picture, the
grumbling soothing sough of the motor preaching,
reaching over the cymballed mountains out there,
shaking the earth under my feet.
Then the crash, her face swept
under the bowing, the rolling waves, no breath, merciless.
Boding nothing but the battle. Still the battle.
An end to nothing.
Isn’t that something.