How the steering wheel / points nowhere except towards itself. / And such is the spinning of the mind: / everywhere. When we drove into new / cities it was only a different shape of haze.
September 20, 2016
An endless garage of memory,
the clear smoke of it against the outline
of my body. To be unseen is to thin
into breath. This voice, heard to disappearance,
touched by a night enclosed in echo.
Open the door, shut it into whichever road
we originated from. The car is silent
in its movement. How the steering wheel
points nowhere except towards itself.
And such is the spinning of the mind:
everywhere. When we drove into new
cities it was only a different shape of haze.
I now sit in it. Let it wipe me away
into the whisper that exists only in the moment
between fading day and falling night.
It covers me like another body, like
wind hiding from its designated end.
Actions only the throw of a voice
will understand, such inaction.
But we never know it. I am only the space
between the scenes I have forgotten
and their edges. Afterwards
there is room only an unnoticed
breath can occupy.