I walk out of the house that isn’t there
and get into the car that I don’t have.
After settling comfortably behind the wheel
that I don’t grasp, I turn the ignition key
that isn’t in my hand and listen with satisfaction
as the engine I don’t hear begins to rev up, ready
for action. Then, once the emergency brake is released,
I gently put my foot on the pedal which is on
the floor my feet aren’t resting on, and, taking a breath
I don’t inhale, I start advancing slowly along
a trajectory I don’t feel throughout my entire body.
Soon I’m speeding down a road that I’m not
traveling on, glancing out the window to the left
at scenes of woodland, and to the right at a flurry
of billboards–with the path I’m on leaving the scenes
behind so quickly that I don’t have time to see them.
I’m heading towards a town I’ll never visit in order
to spend time with people whom I’ll never meet, who
are awaiting the arrival of one who will not arrive,
not now, not ever, but who at this point is departing
for a destination which, changing
again and again and again, is located in
the unknown, a destination which, like a moment lived
fully and deeply, is but another word for my life.