Cars are flung out over the black
Shining obsidian of the bay,
And the bridge is invisible under their invisible tires.
They fly like little search lights
Illuminating this patch of road and then that one,
With chunks of diamond dispensing white
Beneath the hood, and two red red eyes
Glaring from beside the trunk -
As though the past, soundless and distant,
Is somehow at fault for their little flight
Between the sky and the reflected night.