Dreaming of Pandora
on the freeway
riding a giant
box, made of gold,
glittering, and
inside, directly
beneath that
shiny red ribbon,
are tiny scraps of
paper, rolled up
tight like how the
Chinese do it--
faded wise scrolls
dancing beside the
vibrating master,
singing the calm
words, strings of
circuit-bending,
pitch-breaking,
tire-screeching
words, blankets
of scrolls fluttering
up a center aisle
seen and known
only through
rearview,
the words forming
between each crack
on the dusted
pale current,
where no one
can know fortune
flame or falter
until passed by,
the faint sound of
paper ripping
through the ears--
