Rear axle ticks my back
As drive we into the night.
I’m composing another variation in my head–
But nothing can stop the labor pains.
I press my forehead to the glass;
Staring out through the long red rains.
It doesn’t conform to shape of mind,
It doesn’t comfort with warmth–
Just a cold, flat pane to press against brain
And the bloom as breath forms around it.
Foggy sight and sound
with every revolution.
And–almost–I can hear my own thoughts
As I push glass and gray matter together
In a symphony of light