Eight hours by bus, and night

was on them. He could see himself now

in the window, see his head there with the country

running through it like a long thought made of steel and wheat.

Darkness outside; darkness in the bus—as if the sea

were dark and the belly of the whale were dark to match it.

He was twenty: of course his eyes returned, repeatedly,

to the knee of the woman two rows up: positioned so

occasional headlights struck it into life.

But more reliable was the book; he was discovering himself

to be among the tribe that reads. Now his, the only

overhead turned on. Now nothing else existed:

only him, and the book, and the light thrown over his shoulders

as luxuriously as a cashmere shawl.