when one is two

It's a been a minute since I've updated, and a couple of minutes since I posted a poem, so here's one:

From a bluff

the world is a basket:
roads scattered like
rain uprooted worms
dotted by ruddy brick
houses and enormous wheels
of hay in fields

Two roads intersect at
a forty year old gas station
where a much older man
wearing thick dust and overalls
keeps the porch
from wandering off
and waits for the mail.

I read this now, having posted and edited and re-edited, and it feels like not one but two poems. Nothing is ever finished. How silly are we for thinking that possible?