These things
are always out of frame, the lightness
of the side-scrolling landscape
slower by a second, by an unspoken line
of dialogue to the girl
in the back seat that you don’t see but
for one glazed-over eye
looking from behind a lock of hair, fallen
to smear the shadows just so
as you make the turn in the road that shows,
through the rear window’s curve, a chasm
in faded colour into which you’ll never fall, but
you accelerate instead, these things
are always out of frame, the look
in the girl’s other eye, the road
flowing beneath your feet, the line
of dimming in the monotone sky, your hands
cold as you clamp the wheel, what she doesn’t say
with that turn of her neck, these things
are always out of frame, everything
you see as you speed down the road ahead.
May 2006