These Apparitions

These Apparitions

The car is dappled with stars of frost,
cloves embedded in an orange.

Over the road, a black cloud of starlings
converges and pulls apart like velcro.

Here, let me obstruct that for you,
the morning says. I take up its voice

twenty-seven miles later, nearly miss
my exit for the new smoothness

of the road, orange construction signs
and cones extinguished, potholes

stubbed out. Out of everything I have not
seen today, this week, and ever,

why these apparitions. What do I volunteer
to my attention. What is hiding.