driving home in the

cold and furious michigan rain.

the drops bead fast on the

metal and glass

 

riding the round rubber tubular across the dark freeway

at night

in the soundless soup

that I crave

 

and it IS

endless in this night

the navy grass glowing

through the electric light

 

in these weary hours

behind the wheel

curved plastic beneath my palm

I am free in this life

 

holy, the fluids run

rust and rhyme

oil and blood

the textures of skin,

shifting gears beneath familiar sheets

singing the body topography.

The patches of cool and warm,

hair coarse and fine,

free in the long mantra

of the slice and whine

of the highway hum

 

the taste of bone beneath skin,

the sweat in the crook of an arm

strands of hair connecting rods

valves behind a spine

 

And there is still sound

slicing the night

the howl of flight

 

buried behind the roar

the engine craves

the grease in its

metallic grave

 

the pistons frolic in

continued combustible silence

oil massaging the frothy rods

belts fly and

filters resin blurred in the

rattinous fray

 

while the wipes wander flat

against a starless and rain-swept sky