Scale 1 to 50

The phone went black. The screen is dead.

I found the paper book instead.

It was buried in the glovebox deep

where all the old intentions sleep.

I traced a blue line with my hand

across a ghost of shifted land.

The fold lines are white paper-cracks

that hide the ways of doubling backs.

The road I need is gone from here.

It hasn't been a road in years.

I’m looking at a grid of ink

and trying not to have to think.