The Bus

inch worms are portals, 
this one is full of golden light, 
a sour smell, and a hum, 
humming louder than a hive.  
I climbed inside, listened 
to it creak as it folded forward, 
metallic in movement but 
not in spirit; anima animated. 
we weren’t moving very fast, 
but it was a miracle we 
were moving at all, moving like
air moves through lungs, in
gasps, ready to return, to relieve,
to revive the burden of
our own body. faithful, faithless, 
free, breathing, it brought
us back home to our hearts.