[Auden's poetry where surface meets depth in a granulous curve.]
When the old man, needing a cane but without one, approached the bus, the driver saw trouble with a capital T. When the man reached for the doorway one foot and then the other slipped from beneath him. He spun, his arms flailing, breath fleeing and turning the cold air to a covering fog.
In the driver’s mind, the fall read as a bad Polanski: motion slowed, the man’s costive grimace of startlement taking hold. Even the sound of breath and that final grunt seemed to descend an octave. The driver laughed.
Waking from his dream, the driver looked out and saw the old man lying there with one leg stretched at an odd angle. Even from his seat behind the wheel, he could see the tears on the old man's face.
His finger stabbed at the button to close the doors. He missed and stabbed again. Even when the doors hissed shut, he laughed. He could see the man through the glass panels. The bus lurched forward.
Were all stars to disappear or die
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