A man takes his hat from the doorman,
finds his car keys,
this is the warrior’s fate: the desire
for power, over oneself at least,
to forget for a moment, grab the steering wheel,
defend his own lands, dreams, accounts:
to drive through the stone, determine
slavery’s boundaries; shift up,
accelerate the expanse,
let the landscape flow unimpeded,
the view melts, dims
beyond dashboard and windshield.
He does what he wants, joins,
pierces, is born, dies, feels
himself to be real, just a light
pressure on the pedal and the stone’s weight
disappears, just a small evasive motion
and the girder’s hardness can’t be felt,
anywhere. The coma of substance is over,
objects rise out of their graves,
the depths of their names, no need to
trudge anymore, the forest a dim
green line, no need for a coat,
the car is another climate.
No need for bodily strength,
just turn that key,
the window green as you like it,
your mind nothing but this lane.