Was that a bus?
Its receding number indicates
It certainly was;
Although in slightly altered states,

It passed us by,
The opposite of momentous,
By which the fates imply
Things are not so compos mentis

With us, or rather me,
As it might appear,
Quite invisibly,
That you are not exactly here,

Although I hear you,
Feel you, touch your hand -
In the final view
I’m in no man’s land,

Where the traffic rolls unseen
And scenarios develop holes,
Where panoramas are too clean
And the absent-minded lose their souls -

I know that bus exists,
And that forces just beyond me move it:
I suspect that time can turn in twists,
And your return will prove it.