The road is never the same, never the same,
but the dream is, its ribboning s-curves
snaking bends and thin berms without guardrails,
foot at the gas instead of the brake,
fast enough to wheel into sky,
into its breathy blinding blue
taut canvas stippled by clouds,
the next scene a black screen
peppered with pixels of stars and flying
the mountain, valley, meadow, a range,
axle snapping, wheel locking, but flying
into sky cracked open by sun. Someone
is driving. It is not me. It is not me.
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(Published previously in Zawinski’s Something About and Psychological Perspectives: A Semi-annual Journal of Jungian Thought)