at the bus stop the cosmos
disintegrates at the edges
wind spits a leaf into
the gutter swirls it through
a galaxy of mud all these
dead things under your
feet fossils and rot to pay
attention to the patterns
of the world is to learn
your place in the losing game
of survival to feel tectonic
plates scraping in their sockets
and this is the way of things,
make no mistake, all else
is prayer, there is no
fooling yourself here at
this bus stop this blue-
chipped-paint bench
Sharpie scrawls declaring
X loves Y forever and
every other tiny messy
human lie when three hundred
million years ago sharks
circled Pangaea as alive
as you, scuffing the black
disc of gum from the sidewalk
with your sneaker as the bus turns
the corner lumbers through a green
light you’re checking your pocket
for change as the wind exhales
exhaust whistles urgently
in the trees it is saying:
there is nothing to remember
its voice filled up
with the voices of every living-
dead body it has blown across
it is saying: remember always, you
are no more real than anything else
in the universe
Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey is a California transplant studying creative writing in Portland, Oregon. Their work appears or is forthcoming in publications such as Beaver Magazine, Gone Lawn, and Anti-Heroin Chic, and has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. They are a mediocre guitarist, an awe-inspiring procrastinator, and a truly terrible swimmer.
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