Place us in a 63 white Mercedes,
doing a slow swim across an interstate
that looks like every highway we’ve already seen in film class.
Place him as the driver, and even though I lay sideways with her in the backseat,
the triangulation is moving forward.
Don’t look out the window, he says,
I look out the window.
I have lost interest as he manifests endlessly unraveling road beneath our wheels.
Synthetic perfume will do that to me,
a view of fields blurred by compulsion will do that to me,
being topped without a fight will do that to me.
I think about what it will be like when we park,
when he opens the door for us.
Sees in my eyes that I looked at the sides of cows,
saw the running of barbed wire against wild carrot.
I did not notice the way his lover asked me with her eyes if I could
be soft as the lines of a tail-fin blown against blue sky,
and I didn’t look down at my fingers
while wishing they had something hard to break against.