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Bus Ride

Going back
the way I came,
clutching possessions
both acquired & lost,

I am no closer to love,
even after all this time,
resembling anything like truth.

Mountains tower & fade.
Leaves are mottled
by shadows and secrets.

A broken bird,
too far from anywhere,
I sit in this seat,
the miles passing beneath
these wheels
harsher than confessions.

Saskatchewan fills the window
with rich, yellow fields
dotted by green bushes
& brown, distant doll houses.

Going back the way I came,
by bus/without you,
all that any view yields

is trees & time;
words & weeds.

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