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Round the clock they drag
Burnt wheel rubber
and soot gutters
reflect the sky’s runways
Heir presumptives gang way
to make way
for hybrid metal
into/like skulls every make and facial evolves
Seems like we disappear under parked cars
whenever we are inside them
their armor fitting snug
that shade we shut
around us, their coffin-shapes pulling us in
and claiming us theirs, out own estates
inheriting by and by
from road to roads extending
That which thrill exhausts
exhausts thrill
each breath cars take
takes our breaths away as one
loop hole loops widest within the wheel
of fast wills
As pathways yield way
to layers of stonemoss gray as dusk and
waves of fluid amber glossy with gas, the skies are
smoking the skies are toking the skies are freshly tarred roads.