I can see the wind
coming down the gray and double yellowed road
like a woman possessed
to spin in violent synchronization
to the beat of my heart, winter licked.
She comes and keeps on
coming down the road ahead,
screaming with speed and
enough speed in her veins
to strip the skin from the face of my unblinking reality.
I play
chicken in the cold and
try not to blink while she
spins her whips like a shrapnel barbed skirt and
winks like sparks from a summer time trip midst fireflies
before dying against the panes of window glass
the way I watched you go through
on that summer trip
and I stared at those double yellow lines
for hours. Running.
