The 405 opens up beneath you,
the veins of God. Just hopped on the freeway,
you say later, to others who ask
how you got here. It was easy, you jumped
into it and it led you along.
Traffic is what we use to refer to civilization’s
movement, with us or against
us. Traffic was bad means A plethora of cars
filled with a plethora of humans
all decided to go somewhere at the same time.
We can go anywhere now,
but we don’t. The cities we miss get superimposed
onto the one in which we reside.
I wake up intending to visit a sushi restaurant
or ocean that’s been left behind,
and is now 2600 miles away. They seem so close,
the memories we clamp down on.
Our grip makes them glisten.