“Let’s go for a spin,” he said.
“No, let’s stay in,” she said,
trying to detain him, longing to rein him
in for ever.
But he, craving his speed fix,
drummed away, loud and far,
that bright March morning in his scarlet car.
The low sun raked
his eyes: he braked.
Invisible ice, smooth, precise,
middled him as a spinning six
up and over
the River
Styx.