Archipelago

I get stitches
in my worst dreams
usually above my left eye
in a cold room
painted faded blue
with fogged up
windows.

I wheel myself out
to my car afterwards
and everything looks
the same except a notable
crack along the width
of the windshield glass.

I sit behind the wheel
for a long time
turning the radio dial
between a mix of
music, advertisements,
and voices before
I ultimately just settle for
the silence.

The traffic is sparse
and I roll across town
like walking down
an empty hallway.
Women smoke cigarettes
and drink lemonade
in the shadows
of gas station awnings.

I take an on ramp
for a northern route,
and do not hesitate
despite my shaking engine.
I’ll feel better when I’m far away
in the chilling air of the empty
archipelago where any luck
I find can only be a miracle.