The atmosphere is ghost's breath.
It waits to be ingressed-
a milky haze that hugs the here and hides the ahead.
A heaving sea of stoic car-faces
ripples through the purple morning murk,
peerless and parallel,
each vehicle its own metallic soul.
We are all bound for the same simmering horizon.
It bakes behind the ground-clouds,
garlanded in infernal vein.
It calls us by name.
I've learned there are many ways to feel minute:
the skyscraper, the plane window, the morning commute.
A Girl And Her Pen
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