The Flow

Stuck in a glass box filled with hot sunshine.

Traffic jam at the height of summer.

Gliding in a slow stupor past dried out trees,

and wheat-like grass bobbing in eerie slow motion,

On thickening air.

I stick my hand out of the window,

Wrist postured to the sky in offering.

The air is the temperature of a warm bath,

of the primordial sea,

of my mother's womb.

Of my own body, and the thick red life that flows through me.

I grow listless and float along.

The cell walls give up their contents.

Osmosis.

I flow out,

and out.