He enters the second bus: Its coolness sedating the skin that Overlaps his troubled mind. His thoughts pull together Like the light, cool flow of the air conditioning. He feels a little pacified [Come to thyself, human, the refuge from lies!] He knows the shadow's intangible depth: Its vastness having overpowered him these months Until he could not reach the logic that told him To find himself outside its barriers. As he stares out of the window he wonders why she has left. How could she have left without indication When he has remained angled toward work So that he and his wife can stay alive? In the bus window he sees his diaphanous face--the windows Of the Hilton, where he has a job in maintenance, Piercing solidly through its head. He rings the bell The idea of her not home, and legally annulled From his life--her small crotch not tightened to his Desperate thrusts--makes him feel sick. He gets down from the bus. He goes to work. He suddenly knows that he is not in love. End of Project Gutenberg's An American Papyrus: 25 Poems, by Steven Stills