The snowy banks, a negative of what
you might see in daylight, and not
from the window seat of a Greyhound
80 minutes past schedule past winter
storm past partial thaw. I'm being carried
to a city I don't know, having left one airport
for another, one seat of dark cushioned seats
for another, one intercom system threatening
to call out bad news in the form of a flight number
but is it really bad or news? The track marks
of other travels borders us. The blackness ahead
is surprised by pairs of orange lights, eyes
of travelers the other direction. Dreamscapes
all directions, childhood cutouts of sloping
forests bordering moonlight. Meanwhile,
in the parallel life of what I had planned,
I am home already, standing at the kitchen counter,
coat still one, slipping open envelops to pile
them according to meaning, money, moving on.
The smallness of vehicles below sidles up and past.
One landing begets another. My eyes close, almost
somewhere, my back relaxes into the seat,
the body so ready to make a home