We are together at a magic show and we know nothing about it. The white
gloves are awesome. Beaming. The backdrop looks
like a Turner painting, but it isn’t a Turner painting and you know this
because in it there is a greyish mountain that is greyish
because it is distant and there are two lights, headlights, maybe, that peek
out from it. Not even like eyes and yet, exactly like headlights.
Why is it so wonderful to imagine that exact car
that would have us believe its driver is cautious, as one who drives on distant
mountains must be. His vanilla air freshener masking that musky carpet
because it is wet out there in the grey where the scene has caught the driver
midway from where
they were and where they are going so that their head is equally filled
with both. And the magician is still alluring your eyes away from the head
lights. Nothing to be done for our driver, as if anything were needed. Turner
aside. Remotely controlled lights abbreviate our poverty.