David Lynch cliché—
that dark two-lane highway
connecting two odd
numbered interstates;
a distinct memory,
not of the events which
took place,
but the interstices
between them—
the absoluteness,
not of the dream,
but the dream's
continuity—
and the song
that was playing.
*
Now, it's as if
the present moment
the present moment
were an exception
to The Rule,
as if bodies in motion
could contain
their own means,
as if teetering
on the brink
between never-meant
and always-will
were just one viable way
of a million
to remain.