Traffic blots the sun

at street end

like riders

from where I sit

at this bus stop where black slabs in procession

kneel at ends and wires twinkle straight out

and the benches are industrially terra-cotta

we mill

here with transfers

bags of paper wristwatches

without words or arrows some without hands

a gathering of similar magnetic poles

we thin into sunspots

                           bus

then we stream for that small mouth

in this wide end of the glow