Sunset bleeds down the neck of the knife.
Its sharp ridge calls us forth like a siren
to mount the highway north and speed
up the side. We divide our speed
by angle, by economy, by wit or knife.
Sharp! The glass vibrates with siren.
Roll down the window, mute the siren--
the first dance of authority is one-speed.
We wonder if he's seen the knife.
Knife booted, siren speeds away.
(Q. Tritina + 16. Keywords #4 for Poetry Survivor)