I love cars; not for speed or style

But that they go anywhere

Between white or yellow lines,

And they need only a spark.


The engine thrums then roars, in order

Like two movements of a symphony

That resounds and then is camouflaged

With a calmness lingering over the dashboard


In the inertia of an unknown destination.

The scenes on the sides whizzed by in my

Childhood faster than at the front where I am now in control, as though

A good cameraman recording a two-person exchange:


Objects of interest are clearly seen, their truths heard

And I decide which way to steer.

Driving is intoxicating because it feels driven,

Unanchored, with only occasional glances in the rear-view mirror


Although emotionally inadvisable, it is prudent

To know who’s right behind.

I think I can’t drive and think like everyone

But my duality of thought/action should suffice for a drive, if it does in life


After all they seem the same: I notice trees when they lack;

Unstoppably stumbling forward, stopping where beautiful reality seems too good to last.

The mind is free between two pedals, or three in some,

To brake or push on is learnt in early mistakes


But perhaps not too well by me, because at

Junctions are roads as black and promising freedom

Like all the others: cornucopia of infinite or a T-junction which which is more an “I”,

But at least beyond where I have been parked.




The photograph is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈPRAꞪA]



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