Objects in Motion

At sixty miles an hour, the glass begins to thrum.

The silvering is flaking in the bottom left,

a gray cataract creeping toward the center

where you are standing on the curb.

The vibration makes you look unstable,

a flickering image of a person

shuddering out of the frame.

I should have stayed to finish the sentence.

But the road is pulling at the tires,

and in the wiggling reflection,

you’ve already become a small, dark speck

vibrating into the gray of the horizon.