November, for Miles

I'm driving westward,
trying to outrun the sunrise.
Frost forming galaxies on my window,
warm breath and cigarette smoke
clouding the air.
I can't see, but speed on.
Tires screaming quietly in the cold
like water-birds.

I remember, someone told me that
death smelled like pennies.
Coppery, warm-cold, almost worthless.
How could they have known?

Blue-black pieces of sky have fallen into the road.
A corner tips my car on it's axis,
the world stops spinning and slides,
cold metal, hot stars.

I can't be late, I can't be late,
I scream into the dawn,
sunrise finally catching up,
drowning me in bloody light.