Returning is a skill not forgotten;
the road itself knows the way; sights long seen
the eye notices but still does not see,
as they slide past on the road's side,
flattening themselves as those who glide
to and from the bar on a Friday night.
Against window's and mirror's screen
we play our lives, each unfolding scene
subsumed by the foreground as it scrolls past,
seen but not heard. Does a river notice
its banks in its headlong rush to the sea?
No, the journey itself is a device
toward an ever identical end.
Then, the journey is effortlessly done.
A still shot now, stasis returns again—
images projected into nothingness,
transparent in Memory's light.