Sometimes the wheel's inside me
and the traffic lights are
speaking to the traffic candidly. Sometimes
I sit in the seat that could be
the real seat, not
the fakery that has many times
moved under me. Goodbye.
This is goodbye.
At the bus depot
we are an event as well-attended
by music and echoes,
echoes of nothing and of strangers
as any wedding,
any errant birth.
Some imaginary baby
strokes the waters inside me, crashing,
blowing like a whale,
and in you too
an unlikely baby, and
probably in that person over there,
taking in with tiny lungs
smoke near the vending machines.
The flare of the match is
a light in a struck sky.
What the unborn
see is darkness, unbroken dark,
but more, small lane, small plow,
push forward.
We move once
that way. I will never leave.