There's a little road that looks like a river,
leads down into the village and it looks like
a scar from up here, on this tourist deck.
There's binoculars that only cost 25 cents to
look through, and there's also the sky that
stings my skin, or perhaps it's the wind. It
seemingly flows through me, as if I am
merely transparent, and that stings, too.
How small I am to that scar of a road
down there, that is, if it had eyes and
could see me. But it can't, and for a
moment, I feel superior. Then the wind