Landscapes

Flying low over the landscape, I can't see them cry. The engine roars so loud I can hardly imagine a dog barking outside on the front lawn. The bricks of the buildings blur into each other. I cross a thousand homes in minutes.

I want to hear a voice. Mine. I realize I'm speaking. It's my back I'm staring at. It's a summer afternoon and the apartment is so hot the fan blows only hot hair. My shoulders sag and I'm saying... speaking to a figure wavering before me. Is it the heat, am I seeing things?

It's so cold. I see my breath, and realize it's mine. My hands are wearing no gloves, so my skin is raw and numb. I've been waiting for an hour, watching bus after bus. Each one seemed different from the other. Each one carried a little less hope. At home, mail piles up. Telephone rings. I'm not aware of it. I don't know it, because I'm here.

I wake up with my forehead pressed against the glass. I look up to see that I've returned. A cacophony of cabs, smog, and suits are silent as I look on from inside the bus. A baby cries somwhere up front. The seat next to mine is empty. I feel nothing.