The sedan hasn't moved since the transmission died

The sedan hasn't moved since the transmission died

back when the heat was a physical weight.

Now the sky is opening its white mouth wide

to swallow the rust and the expired plate.

A mound is forming over the shattered glass

of the side-mirror, smoothing the jagged edge.

I watch the flakes gather in a quiet mass

covering the oil stains and the brown hedge.

It looks almost holy for a minute or two,

this soft, cold sheet draped over the wreck.

It’s a lie, of course, but a pretty one to view

before the slush starts rising to its neck.