I went to Florida like a madman
once, driving a lethal car down
ribbons of lethal highway. The
Carolina cotton fields of home?
Georgia shacks, where I turned off
bleary; the ramschackle district of
St. Augustine, how I loved it. Not
part of the city, just out in the
sticks. Flying down past legions
of something, how many people
did I see? A certain form of travel
allows you to lose respect of time.
I didn't know a day, nor even the
hour, mostly. Someone had to
tell me yesterday had been
New Year's Day.