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.