Midnight Bus from New York City with Thomas Traherne
To their glowing devices.
No one else cares about
The arrangement of lights across New Jersey,
This museum exhibit of the day’s zero
Slowly fogging with collective breath.
The hum and rumble of the bus
Overlaid on the mind’s machinations,
Smoothing them, like the night smoothes
This strange pastoral:
Meadowlands of empty parking lots
Beyond the highway-side grasses, tall and swaying,
As each streetlight grows arm-beams,
Reaching to one another—
Across ramps and bridges,
The rolling darkness, out to where
Someone sleeps the deep sleep of a child.