I decide to travel backwards.
Every tree I see is a past tree
and the bus takes me into a future
I don't care about, but which is already
spreading out its wings, not to lift
but bury me.
I get up, desperate, to find a forward facing seat
and I find it in the last row where the trouble makers sit.
The trees lie ahead now.
Having predator's eyes, I miss the side scenes in the wood
My imagination fails to grow the mushrooms, to collect the leaves
or to meet the beetle at a crossroads.
There is just the moving bus, its howling engine, its unknown passengers
and a direction which I cannot agree to.


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