Windowlag/Driving South Again

Some clouds are cold inside. The room the sky

is entering is everybody’s mouth. Closing

my fists, it’s time to reel my headlamps for the night.

Fireworks frill the road, their plumes multiplying on

my windshield, the next car’s left window, 

a passenger’s phone-screen. The future’s filling up

with past, moving oppositely. The future’s filling up

with past, oppositely moving. The future’s filling up

a passenger’s phone-screen. The future’s filling up

my windshield, the next car’s left window.

Fireworks frill the road, their plumes multiplying on

my fists. It’s time to reel my headlamps, for the night

is entering. Is everybody’s mouth closing?

Some clouds are cold inside the room, the sky.