Drive

// David Russomano

The highway motion — sacred
red and white lights sped
in opposite directions until
they blurred together. Of course,
a line is only ever composed
of infinite points. The cold
air was pregnant with
revelation. Swollen
epiphany implicitly teaching
me that past Autumns were
not dreams, but real memories.
The window rolled down and
the crisp air barreling in felt
like life or made me feel
alive or want to grab
hold of life or even,
remotely, briefly,
reminded me of
stillness.