the bus
by Sarah Mahina Calvello
heading home
in the cold
feeling low
blind drifts of vapor flew
can’t look up
its just too much
too disheveled
blue trees
of dark lace
the cold silver windows
of the bus
I can almost see the circles
of my breath
a young man
with round quiet eyes
brown and closed
sandy blond hair under a flat tan hat
he sets the wooden harpsichord
on his lap
in one motion
of jagged knobs
and smooth wood
not looking at anything
except at what is in his hands
fingers jumping and weaving in a calming trance
nothing haunts us like the things we dont say
your jade eyes are dangerous
he said
traces of breath
do their airy dance
with a shy sideways smile
white star lights
shimmer down the highway
sometimes it takes sadness
to appreciate happiness
noise to appreciate silence
and absence to value presence
