By the bus stop, dayshift workers gray-skinned in the April chill,
stand lean marbles, granites, samples carved with exemplary names.
She'll have eaten dinner, girded with a bib, in the last fastidious shafts of light.
Our talk was of the flowering crabapple tree, its quivering, avenging burst of bloom.
Rain blurs into bluestone snow the heft of ancient dolerite. And the fire-tipped
shadows of dusk curtaining the windows of the hall have frightened her.
The bus, its exhalations choked with grime, is bearing down. Even now,
I can't describe for her the weight of this unwieldy, this inhuman thing.