at the bus stations the people are going everywhere
in their scattering laden trajectories
there is the burning smell of moving powerfully

stopping a while, legs that have been sat on overnight unfold
bags shouldering through aisles
feet strike the sudden rough pavement
to, from is all thrown together

rice cakes and biscuit tins
a pocket of mints and a bottle of water
the week in your bag

the rough weave of its handles bearing down
on my fingers
later the impressions tingle in the red weals

moment
as only leaving can define the shape of your head

i breathe a diesel flavored kiss into your ear
maybe it will stay