It was a road,
no more, no less,
leading to a wooded place
seen from the highway.
I took that road that day,
no thought given,
no hesitation,
driving straight on to it,
and left my life behind.
I was lost in America,
adrift in car,
as surely as a boat
tossed by the sea
in a storm.
The road narrowed,
no turn possible,
only straight ahead
and into ever darkening places,
a green so dense it was black,
almost a solid wall
of wood and earth and rock.
I slowed,
but continued on,
there was nowhere
else to go.
All roads end,
I thought..
at least in the world,
the world I'd come from,
and whether I was still in it.
Was I sure anymore?
No, and still,
not then,
not now,
still traveling in the dark.
I don't drive the car,
I ride it,
like a boat in a river
led by the current
to where it wants to go.
I want to go home,
I think,
but can't remember it anymore.
I'm not sure.
Where is it now,
my home,
the place where I was born?
Can I be lost,
lost in America?
I go on,
ever deeper into the woods,
looking for a light,
of the moon,
of the sun,
of another living soul.
The wheels turn,
on their own,
of their own volition,
and I,
I grip the wheel,
and watch through the glass,
and look,
and hope,
for the end.
JC 2009