Morning brings a land forgotten
Wraith dreams of a salt sea millennia gone
The two-lane road stretches into sacred fog
Obscuring the forsaken desert and hinting of a clandestine coastline
Water beads on the windshield, lungs gasp at the curveball damp
Road signs peer suspicious through clouds in a sky brought low.
Yellow arms of dead brush become beachweed bent over dunes
Vertigo, as we are transplanted miles away from here
Not on the way to work. Not the same as yesterday.
The very air incites tumult, change, transmutation
Until the door closes, and the day descends sword-like.
Roads on Her Face 