For the art of poetry
the city streets
stir slowly
waking with me.
A multitude of cars,
follow in front
and behind me.
They look like
that illusion
when two mirrors
reflect eternity
back and forth
between themselves.
They look like
a thousand
distorted reflections
of me
driving at a parallel pace
in different cars
with different faces
going to different places
for the same reason.