Sunny Engines

Now I'm 40
I see the machines.
Machines love the light.
Even the stars are oiled.
A human face grows white,
the eyes coiled
in the head,
but machines are better
than that.

Toward evening the bridges
have baby cars,
winter sunset traffic is frail,
wrapped in orange flannel
flown out from the town.
Why put down machines?
Reflections rise
from deep sides of the cars
like water.
Her mouth cool at the window,
the sun combs
her dangerous long hair.
I have no wife or child so fair.

We've failed so far,
or I've failed,
looking this way and that,
swerving, duplicate,
changing only lanes.
I fall home nervously,
we're nervous
on the mildest winter nights.
Streetlights, and headlights,
chrome goes wild in the underpass.
Our earth rocks its children
in curved glass.