The currents at the mouth of the bay are u-ing out
A sparkling pulsing divine order
Foot on the dash, my leg hair glows golden, lit up by the evening sun
A gleaming pattern that spells nothing in particular
And the traffic is moving slow
With hundreds of us lurching one after the other
In our metal beasts of burden
Homebound, sun setting
All of this appears to be a divine order
The current
The hair on my legs
And us creeping together in rows across the bridge
What lets this be so?