The 6-Cylinder Home

when the now has come and gone
a fuck and run that lasts the stretch
of stretch

and then dissolves to brighter fears
and smaller murders--
death the parked car, only

in cages concussions dwell and chug, abandoned
with jobs they hate and objects wasted
always on the edge of something with wings
that never leaves the ground

i'll let go first, in my dreams
my fist will open
and the thing will fly away to wait
for the day the snow comes
and never stops.