terese svoboda
It Night Was
No one imagines
night at noon. Especially
emphatic, "night,"
as a bus without words, stripes,
or symbols, carrying us
into more dark. We are not
wiser then, unless it’s Budd.
(The bus trickles Budd).
Grey first the white noise
of day, a winnowing of
particle bad/wave good,
a cross-country, yawn-stiff
rice-mush day that designs
out self. Stay wicked,
with a wick. The bus presses
the everyday full sun
into the half moon orange,
presses the air around it
presses it flat. We don’t
look, our look is strictly
"See?" I never
thought I would.
