Is this knob organic or not?
You're shifty. I'm quick to brake
for love, for room to maneuver.
The history of the car in America,
the history of America in the car. The smaller
the car the faster the windows steam.
Imagine a policeman's beam, two
transfixed moths and a candleflame.
The advantage of knees bending
like a chicken's. The tight squeeze
of heavy traffic. Only one person
can steer at a time. Passion
amplified by speakers in stereo.
We're on the road, somewhere between
here and there, believers in process, change,
not the square solidity of beds,
that illusion for squares, but arrival
where the light is always green.
What's coming up fast from behind?
Deer crossing. Steep grade.
The memory of upholstery, personal weave,
some checkered pattern on skin
a temporary love tattoo or
industrial product mythologized
comfortably into a moral universe.
Through the windshield, that transparent
forehead, a mad scientist could study
the sparking brain of the monster.
Above us, the little eye of a god, switched off.
So where's your operator's license?
No certification, though my daddy
lifted his hands for seconds from the wheel,
me in his lap, and I thought I was driving.
We've been dreamed into existence
by this sleeping car. Isn't the gauge
on empty yet? More air, more air, the price
this summer night a whining audience
who love blood. If you stretch back
far enough you can see the cooler voyeur stars.
To be each other's lit dashboard
in a Great Plains dark surround,
let's shift into this moment
forever, what people do
to get a ride. Even our ghosts
will have their thumbs out.
When she flicked
with a brush
made of feathers,
I felt like
the Virgin Mary
at the conception
the Holy Ghost
a flutter of wings
between her legs.