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Dragged on a highway dividing lanes,
A traveling chalk, I,
diminish connecting dots,
Every curve, hugged and slid across,
Every tunnel, echoed with engine shots.

Every trip, tightening the light
yarn wound around street lamps,
Every change in season, a reason
the terrain makes faces at me,
I am switched between demarcated speed channels,
routed like data packets which are never lost

What can the chalk draw anymore?
Does it have any calculus?
An LHS equals to RHS?
Or will it, merely,
retrace its path along the lane divider?
Looking for spaces in its length ...
To fill in the blanks