Passing through Humansville
Twice today, I’ll slip into and out
of Humansville, both coming and going,
but now tendrils of fog span the road,
the layer of white like an old lady’s hair
spread out behind her in rapture. Why not?
The oldest vessel can still hold
a drink, or else you’d call it a shard.
From his potter’s wheel, my friend
can see sometimes a woman, maybe seventy,
who bikes in looping circles
in the empty funeral lot. And maybe we’ve chanced
over the patch of ground where our ashes will light.
Maybe unwittingly we’ve danced.
Header photo of fog on road by xusenru, courtesy Pixabay.