Underneath piling gray slush,
ice seals the road like glass,
an unopened window to death
spilling out to kiss
the shallow tread of my tires,
which meet the ice with no restraint
in the way their unconscious spinning
has spun the world
that blurs past my spiraling car
as I realize the perverse turn
from its forward progression
to twisted disregard
of the steering wheel I grip,
a faulty control on my life,
that, when I pull to set it straight,
only drifts out further
into a memory of your flushed neck
pulsing chaos against my cheek
as I gently squeezed your upper arm
and heard your laugh
as though you were beside me now
alternating both your hands
to turn the steering wheel faster
and drive circles
into snow-covered parking lots
until I'd laugh and squeal,
"Enough, Brian! Stop the car!"
and you'd finally slow down.
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