Pressed between two masses of cold
air like water between two smooth stones,
it whips, writhes serpentine, sings
in a shock of sound we never hear.
It’s a god’s breath, angel’s wake,
incarnation of rushing.

& they named your little
car after that wind.
So black it could melt
into the ink of night,
it’s still while the streets
& the whole world
roll under it. Discarded chariot
of some goddess, leaning
toward sky as you drive,
it aspires upward, wanting
to go home, wanting to carom
again on the quickfrost wind
of the god’s breath.