The sticky inhale of Southern Pine,
another taste of Oak.
Mulch and rock
under my sandals.

And now a bar-top in air conditioning.
Ice water delivered.
The glass is a window—
a car in the rain.

Food
delivered.

I feel a constant tunneling,
forcing me to turn down
whatever it is the dial is connected to.

Trying to slow down is not slowing down.

I need to slow down.