qarrtsiluni

There’s no one around, the center sere,
dry as the moon. No one comes near
the still terminal. Buses dispatched
like the sun overnight, doors unlatched,

sit smelling of vomit and beer. Where are
the drunks, neighborhood newstands, far
smoke from the rendering plant? My eye
from a window that never was lends the dry

look of circumstance, something like form,
then takes it back. Sunday, normal,
not sinister. Pigeons unpattern the clouds
with a wash of gray. Trains reroute,
flash like the first things alive.
In the rain, the Daily News arrives.

by Robbi Nester

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