Laying there on
the backseat
of a 1973 Gremlin
watching the night sky
flowing by.
Like a glass-topped coffin
buried at sea.

The streetlights
Martian death-lamp
tracers.

The rattleslam dance of loosely bolted parts
shocks-bouncing the pockmarked-faces
of the potholed streets
as this trusting-bolus
of eyeballs and meat
is lulled to sleep
in a junk-drawer of
rusty knives and
safety-glass.