the watched for bus is never on time.
Headlights splash the night:
blur rainy specs in dazzling shards,
synaptic tricks thrown about the dark.
Across unsullied level dew
the clubhouse clockhands show eleven.
Their cricket square is roped:
its droplet carpet, footprinted now,
points the way to brazen noon.
A ghostly roof crests the rise:
is the distance of two stops.
x.1999
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