Each face staring straight ahead, no one speaking, 
each rider holding the day carefully, like an egg, 
past the piroshki bakeries, past the restaurants 
selling pho and bulgoki and Shanghai dumplings 
and carnitas, past the Church of the Star of the Sea 
on the long blocks of the Outer Lands, 
concrete-covered sand dunes reaching out
to the Pacific and the blinding sunset light.
When the bus stops to let the people embark and
disembark, it makes a sound like baby wolves
howling at the moon. We drive on west, into
the sun. Each time the back door opens
it makes a sound like waterfowl
lifting from a lake. And we are hopeful,
even the old ones who struggle up the steps
to slowly ease into the seats reserved for them
and for the injured, and the young ones who think
they never will be old, for we believe that we will be delivered, 
that we will be transported in our earthly bodies,
traveling as we are toward Avalon, the Island of the Blest,
with its golden apples and its lake of fire.