NaPoWriMo 4-16-2014: The Bay of Fundy

Main streets
full with half doors,
top halves
open, light spilled
from behind

carve gray
mineshafts into
shore-fog

and form a closeness,
or maybe closenesses
tempering
an unspeakable expanse.

These counties
collapse and fold
in upon themselves
like dying spiders,
sloppy with
five-dollar lobster
pouring out
into the walk-up, starless dark.

The surviving traffic
at the far end of the country
steers by knee
through
centerless towns;

towns that do something like welcome
hungry
traversers.

Nearby,
The Bay of Fundy
does
what the Bay of Fundy does,

And
leafless trees
go thin, fragile,
silver with frost
where they meet the assumed sky,

and sweat
in heavy rivulets
and pourings
where they cling to the earth.