There is a sudden spark in the peel between my fingers
and I know it’s about time you did something right.
The steering wheel is leading your hands into a contained heaving:
the collected reshuffle of forces
into the no-taker passing. And there’s speed to
patronize the road; let it fuel us,
what remained of our passional buffer zone. Speech bubbles.
The car minimizes our voices, the musical blips
unlike the huge house where
the tones felt like untotalled. It’s just a frame, don’t look
and don’t look sharp: sometimes
our life is where it isn’t
that’s where
we’ll consume everything.