Travel Safe

The terror of the morning wrote inside twenty lines, down from two hundred,
all the horrors of previous lives and hypothetical conversations from last year, your target
knowing your vice through another
through another, so you had to argue your case
before it is all journaled away. It’s gone! Was it there? Can we worry?
Looking up hardly seems like a movement now. Corresponding
feelings with the environment is cheating, but you dare not
write a thesis on it—you dare not write anything. What is there
to talk about? What is there to discuss or see
except sea, and your repetitive tricks
to do away with it, perhaps cheating? It reminds you
of something you’re severing, sources
not being ones they once were, cause and effect, not
lying but not being something to infer with or along. Along
comes another static, as they say, or black dot
in the corner of the screen and you
used to scream, but now you’re annoyed you even mentioned it.