she was sitting in front of me
in the bus to Manhattan.
her face was reflecting in the window
Lincoln Tunnel was the hyperspace.
remote stars were passing by in darkness
behind the glass.
only her face was quiescent.
she was sleeping.
I touched the window it was warm.
it must be her breath that warmed it.
when the bus left the tunnel,
the light erased her image.
isn’t it ironic?