STILL LIFE

The car, leaving a wake of swirling, invisible exhaust, presses us toward the back of our seats, forward down the road. Our hands make warmth of friction, sliding and holding and letting go and grabbing on. When you write those things on the page and when you say those things to me, I become stilled, and I feel the whole of the world, all the people and the winds and the cars—I feel them moving.