The bus to Pittsburgh rushes down the tunnel
and so I start to time how long it takes
to come up on the other side of the Hudson.
On my right, a boy, of college age, is reading
Genet's Funeral Rites. The book holds him
quite still, his body carved to hold the book,
just as my watch, a lover's gift, holds me
eyeing its hand wiping its white face. When
he turns a page, the bus sees day again.
It is not what you think. I have not been
resurrected through this fair freshman
and his encounter with a deathless art,
but this young man has touched eternity
because in the unheated Greyhound bus, the day
before Thanksgiving, I have taken time.