Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!