concentric circles:

Sitting in my rainbox house, I hope for a flood. Watching the water rise, rivers choked with detritus, standing and waiting. There was a small earthquake last night. I am not in charge of any of this: no one is. I drove slowly down 217, my new wiper-blades throwing water impressively off my windshield. I read my future in the leaves that clog gutters. I sat in my car this afternoon. The heat from my drive lingers after I turn off the ignition. The rain is loud in that box; I sleep.

I am back on books. They are my drug of choice. Time is lost between their leaves— sated.