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28th February

The Bus, Frida Kahlo (1929) 

The motor way streetlights

make passage across the planes

of your sleeping face:

in ten second repeated sweep

they cast you in all the shapes

that it takes, lids in dark,

lashes in light, the cup of your soft bottom lip

against the edge of your upper.

Orange pictures peeling from the dark and

away, from the light and into the window pane

you rest against, my thin scarf pressed against

the cold. I feel the tickle of envy, envy

the light its ability to leave so easy,

to come and go without disturbing you,

and how it touches every inch;

I know it gets nothing, and I think, smug,

if leaving was easy, then the staying

would have no worth. The ways I disturb

you are plenty—I am no gentle

glow; I grow heavy being so bright,

and crash into your quiet so often;

you look at me and I feel caught,

and made still, though I quiver with meanings

which flood my insides. You look

at me, and lead

me to believe I am someone amid the atoms.

motorway breaks away, a wishbone

road, snapping. A sign so divine, and though

it is night, I feel the day as it was you. Orange

white of the frosted streets, and ice cream in

the snow: the sudden impossibility of a perpetual

moment. The destination is coming close,

and shaking brain freeze, and shiny songs,

I gently wake you, whisper: we’re here.

We’re here, wherever that is, here

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