The art of driving

Driving all night

Toward the face of death

That shines

Like a beacon

In my mind,

I point the vehicle

In line and move

Forward, ever forward,

but always back,

Move on mechanically to

The moment

When death will

Be seen as the final

Null act and

The last image

In that human place of going

And coming

At the end of the road,

Where the drive will stop

And the engine will cool.


So I drive through

The headlight space

Of thoughts on repeat;

And the flicker of

The lines on the road

Becomes the

Interval that defines

The limits of time,

And the boundary

Of this existence,

As I look ahead

And glance behind.


This is the art

Of driving

As I head north

To see an end

And to embrace

And cry in

The soft light

Of grief’s quiet fall

That waits there

For me to come,

Waits there for

The journey’s

Dreadful end,

Waits there

For the cold

and dull ache

Of separation

And the pondering

About why

I came at all.