Bus Poem#3 Poem by robert dickerson

And the luxury high-rises glide by
as if we were parked standing still
and the flower shop fronts, opposed,
glide by, too, festooned with fuchsias
as if conveyor borne; and the gaudy stands
of vegetables and fruits, manned by girl Koreans
the cellular yams, squarose,
arranged in bins like skin;
and the mass housing
and the mass murderers-
to fellow buses the drivers wave and tip hat.

Oh my beloved, my repined for
occhi verde, occhi grigio
the gall of whose rancor I savor
the myrrh of whose indifference I crave,
verdegrigio
your feet are like dunes
your knees are like the tops of tall trees
there is truth in your feet-
over, by. through me you look,
per, sopra, oltre
non sono degno, non
sono degno,
non...