On the Bus

It takes twenty hours to get through

downtown Decatur on the number

two. Light is water is glass

is where the fuck are we going.

Beetles glisten blue in parking lot

C, ganglia exploded all over the lawns.

Every passenger takes 2.17 million

years to find a seat, asking when

will we stop in Georgia. Meantime,

Georgia has submerged due to lost

Greenland out the windows there was

a line about light becoming water.

Carcaradons wag along the sidewalks.

This is the first poem in the last

fifteen minutes that I have not drafted

in fifteen minutes. I wish for ceiling

fans. I wish the bus would pull away

from the curb. This summer all

of the South was burning.