Bus Ride

At this time of day the sun is a narrow boat of light.
It lingers on the tops of trees; the fences are brighter.

The sky is a sheet of cobolt blue, the telegraph poles
make crossword puzzles; the landlocked horizon shimmers sea.

At this time of day the sun dies beautifully – it’s death
is a slant on a terracotta field: the glinting sky,

amber on the road, the gilt – circling the paving stones
like the correct answers, on a geography test paper.

At this time of day, a golden city will fit itself
into what’s already there; the sun floats like an orange.

It illuminates an apple that fits inside my hand.
It runs along my wrist like a glove of yellow sand

At this time of day, the world is made of softened gold
For an hour like a light box, I think of nothing else