The bus enters a pencil drawing,
passes a bridge over a smudge.
Squares, houses, triangles, roofs,
trees of charcoal,
and your face, a sketch
barely reflected in the window.
We sit in the back: white teeth, black hands,
gray criss-cross of silence.
We pass from one frame
to another, in darkness.
It rains clear yellow, fall’s color,
the color of death.
Embraced, we walk on alleys of air.
We are alive.