in transit

the yellow flowers to stop

I’m in the back of a bus to Berlin, I told him, wondering how they get the yellow flowers to just stop all of a sudden.
What? he said, and I sent him a picture on the telephone of what I was looking at, Danish meadows dense with something that made them yellow, totally, until with a disorganized border that was obviously following its own orders the yellow thing stopped growing and a green thing began. Swirls of color. Waves washing on a shore.
I think that stuff is called “rapeseed”, he wrote back.
I said, Thank god.
He said, There must be a better name for it.
I said, How could there possibly be a better name for anything at all ever?
I said, Murderplant.
I said, Punching people in the facetree.

I have the back row to myself

I said,

Some of this, I am RAPIDLY realizing, is about enslavement to material things 

I took along so little of what I have

And still it is far far far too much 

I have the back row of the upper deck of this seven-hour bus to Berlin to myself, which feel auspicious 

Not even auspicious 

Itʼs just plain good, in real time 

There is WiFi, evidently, and outlets, and I packed multiple sandwiches of Ingaʼs refrigerator dregs and thought to buy extra water, and Iʼm hopeful 

Iʼll make lists, and maybe friends with the sweet boy who, with me, was last to board and is now settled in ahead of me and to the left 

Maybe I will offer him some of my seats, as he only has two while I have five 

It looks like he let his guitar be put with the luggage, though, so I will not ask if he knows any Decemberists 

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