Masses move like clumps of weeds
Floating narrow outlets, making corners,
Pieces breaking off, sliding, new turns
Some stopping, disappearing, moving on.

The stream divides and crosses
It loops right then left, no seeming end.
The cars all dusty brown and wet and arrogant
Sound bleating cries, jostling to win.

Each one thinking they are the only;
Unconscious to all others, but having to.
Quick moves, sudden turns, ignore to negotiate
Serving a tiny purpose, finding a tiny end.

Above the rush and floating mass
Peering sharply down, closing in
The monoliths and testaments, providing each
One a burrow, and a fence, against escape.