Linda

I am a time-island in my speeding capsule of steel and glass, the glazed skies are vaguely sinister in a layered, silvered haze. Isolated among streams of strangers intent on destinations alongside freeways pressed into fissured plates, I absently tuck away a tendril of escaping gray, reach for water plasticated slick with condensation. On the sun-mottled dashboard, page corners curl in scribbles paused overnight between Cerrito’s and South-East. Already, the faces are blurring into repetition, faded traders, the nod-and-smile exchanges. Homeward cacti prickle the space behind me, sway to the rumble of ribbon-stitched county lines. My fluttered origami thoughts dance unfolded in patterns encircling mosaic wisdom and ladders of blank perspective. The earth rotates, I breathe.