I'm in my car,
thrown forward with unnatural velocity.
I've been thrown out of cloth,
somewhere I've been shaken and dusted from a cot or bed,
little pieces and scents of me flying out windows
and settling on the corners of carpet.
Somewhere the fog of my breath is leaving a glass,
receding from closeness to clarity,
(my absence is vision).
I feel scrubbed from a shoe,
somehow I'm being rubbed away and lost in a garden,
and somehow I'll be forgotten
whether slowly like a street in the rain
or with vigor and vinegar and fierce force of motion,
a car on a highway