GHOST RIDER
with the gaze of an outsider, I look in the mirror
at my face
at the tracings of time
at which I never seem to have been present
and decide once again that I'll just have to wait and see
how the first wrinkles run, the past
I sometimes think, must be something lying ahead of us
that which has been, I'm drawing back to me from afar
like a series of episodes on my retina
unfolding the achievements of two renowned horologists
one became an illusionist and took his clocks on stage / the other
invented first the conveyor belt and then leisure time / to temporarily forget
that it's your own car / you’re reassembling every Monday
I wonder:
if something can exist that's invisible
then what's that ghost driving through my face?