i-95
blank as the endless interstate dropping south to florida
and following the constant line of headlights junctioning the road to the sky;
the convergence of distance - the fixed backdrop
in the same pavement and trees,
automated, lulled into the structure, the uniformity,
this flattening of self, this pull along the x axis, the y -
minutes metered out by the regularity in signposts,
and space hung resolute and framed,
the relentless imposition
of right angles and straight lines,
unbroken and choiceless - the shortest distance between -
until the dead hours of road dropped off into the streets of an old home
which open up like arms,
unacknowledged, manipulated by habit -
the ocean looming abruptly from the arc of a bridge
carrying nothing, no significance,
only the flat clear divide of the horizon
and the mathematical breaking of the endless waves -
I stood outside my house, looking at the shapes in the wall
and weighing my keys uncertainly in my hand
with a creeping disorientation itching up my spine,
with some connection lurking, elusive, hanging in the angles and the lines -
empty, I turned away from the edges of my parents' window
gravel crunching as the driveway stretched out,
amorphic, patternless, pondlike -
there was the smell of the ocean coming in from the street,
and the rise and fall of locusts humming in the trees.
my fingers curled slightly; I stood at the point of origin,
static,
without a thought in my head.