Confined. Bumps on the road

invisible to their bandaged ears

traveling through the unused fields.

Tracks that lead in one direction

bound to the persistent gaze

of the passengers who rig their own elections.

Snow piles give way to the warm

and the sand seeps between the seams.

It was always too late to tell them they’d been warned.

The windows leak a pink neon.

It drips down the side

As she turns her head.

Scanning the direction of the cracks,

she lifts her blue sweater

and washes it away.