Bus

Quiet women and timid men, hugging
the relative comfort of chairs, eyes averted from shared smells,
their faces at odds; noses and mouths in a curled disapproval,
looking elsewhere.

A man has been knifed. Sliced behind the ear by a boy
who didn't think about the catch-up-crush on the stairs.
One of them is caught, bear hugged down by a drip-red,
blue collared, cut-up man.

Sat him on his lap like a squirming babe.
I didn't see the slice. Usually ride up front
peering through the reflection at the icy road:
I count scarves, hats, gloves, and hoods.

I turned to see the action, and he cut
the condensation with something:
'Why don't any of you do anything?
Are you going to sit and give this world to them?'

Slowly, there became a less reluctant us;
'I called the police,' she said; he said, 'Stop the bus.'

Blessing

Geranium; she says, 'Over there!' and he says,
'Where?' walking on. Silver Princess; Lavender;
'By the light of the fisherman's hut, I swear I saw
a shadow.' Bush Iris; Bottlebrush; Red Lily; and She
Oak down the winding path to sea. She is wearing
Orange Oil and Frankincense, yesterday's scent
a shade undercut. Fringed Violet; Mulla Mulla
and Sundew to the sand, where a woman in Musk
is placing a garland around her neck. 10 Rupees
drop in a shell pot, Chrysanthemums compress
Jasmine fresh and she anoints their foreheads
with powders, passes her hand across their
shoulders, says something; a Blessing of salt, water
and all I can smell is the blossoming air of the sea.





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