One hundred ten kilometers per hour
the road is static, the world smudged
control is an illusion wrested from machine
blind faith in a thousand unknown things
moving through time and space.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
destinations are no longer distance, but time.
If not the ending or the beginning
a long threshold, an inbetween
somehow ignorant of us in these moments
knowing only hope and nostalgia.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
the steering wheel is grappled from anothers hand
while the machine it guides is thrown about.
The gears, shafts and wheels move only in absolutes
submissive to the violence of velocity.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
is an absurd starting block for a box of metal
tumbling like a clod of dirt down a hill
all engineering and safety cast off like night gowns
the naked vulnerability brutalized and screaming.