It’s a twisting of hands,
a thirst to indulge
the spirit of the getaway,
the radical, unradical of
wish and desire; air through
a chrome grill chews hungrily
the dark of night on tendrils
of unlighted roads.
The tires roll out a language
of hate and speed; the normal
is scrapped for expression.
Roads crisscross without stop
signs or warnings.
Demon headlights and dragon
red tails stretch until absorbed
within the vanish.
Out here there are only
green lights.
Roger Singer 