strings of light invite us to its pageant of traffic,
full stop, the slick monochrome of street
I repeat, it is snowing in May, it is snowing
all over my eyelids but my head is a fire
I put my pedal down to this floor
in a bizarre surrender. Speed is also
a way to slow down. Trust me
when I place your hand on the stick shift,
that I am asking you to take the wheel
for no one other than yourself. And when
I turn the radio up to drown us both out
of time and space, the marchers will
fall into their parades. My mother always said
the cavalcade erodes as much as it erects