Buses rumble and bodies move through the busy course-way of life.
The air is somewhat thick, like ice stuck on the corners of fences and faces.
Sullen and weary, the pale sun of the heart still burns, still moves along its arc,
Were hope gravity, the stars would turn and shine their light eternally,
but the night sky is full of long faded memories,
and the eyes spend their tears chasing a glimmer.
Nevertheless, buses of roaming bodies pulse through arteries of cities.
Monuments are built and clothes are woven, sold, and worn.
Plates are molded and food is sourced.
Families eat their fill, though some perpetually chew the rough skin of their sufferings.
The earth with its nervous bowels shakes, its continents drift,
and the dust that powders its face clutters and pulls away.
Everything is war and peace.
Everything is pen and ink.
Everything unsaid has been said
in the bold rumbling and humming
of buses and bodies.
