Turquoise Maserati

          For Nadya Ginsburg—


Gold highway threaded to charred coast,
PCH flutes through bone moaning,
marrowing, motor mouthfuls oil
flows out of and over until

her pout purrs whispers your grip stills,
hold in your hands her wheel fate goes
with when you turn against it all,
never again glancing back, thrill

now of living for once without
their script or doubt to edit out,
now off giving your sunset most
of that glimpse gifting wars their spoils,

          how spolied you are, faster it goes,
          Maserati’s blur’s more turquoise


now than your fire ever was, ghost
before this gem you hold dissolves
from another mirage some foil
sparks when touched by someone else still

enthralled with this business, left
stunned, wondering if it’s about
getting the most out of seeming
the most loved, or becoming well

adjusted to being their most
accomplished legend, and one set
to vanish when vanity’s worst
can’t be done, no, not since your toil

          toward more than immortal cost
          no more than working for our smiles.