The roadside signs sidle by—skulking past
on vision's edge, flattening themselves against
sight's blurred wall, letting cars hurtle on, lest
something disturb endless monotony
by becoming noticeable—unlike
the white lines that crash forever forward
into speeding cars only to dwindle
into the nonexistence of passed
horizons. The rearview mirror paints
an ever changing portrait of a life
in the slow lane beyond that backwards look.
Zeno's arrows unerringly fly to that point
to find the heart of all journeys,
where they now irrecoverable lie.
Life lies battered and bleeding on this
Interstate, untended and unloved to all,
especially to that one beyond
the horizon's dim singularity.
That gold wire now stretched far above ductile
strength has broken, each end speeding apart,
much faster than the speed of a thought
sent alone into the void, searching
for its twin, or at least a reasonable
likeness—will it ever be discovered?
Bored faces pass by and merely glance
sidelong—too intent on their own problems
to notice the images that play
at the corners of their eyes; others, noses
pressed against the glass, stare from their own worlds.
The white lines, still below the car where all
movement rests, continue to hurtle on
from a future without meaning, lurking
hid from sight, and a past that now is gone.
Here, rests both the future and the past caught up
in the cabins of single cars cruising
out their lives on the unscrolling highway.