The Drive

We cut the miles Like a blade-bent On homicide. As the tar serpent Rises readying its hood In heated passion Sashaying in its midday heat Playing water mirages Of dark shimmers As we sink in its glistening Endless asphalt river While the waft of heated rubber Rises and rises... Until we are no more No longer living In the everyday regulated regular miles. We are stars As this rocket-ship transverses Potholes of ash to a distant far