A Machine's Ambition

Between my shadow and the sun
is the opacity of flesh:
the body as a vehicle
for blood, a dump truck for my dreams,
a lorry load of nerve endings,
a camper van of holiday
romance. Take to the road and drive
this sucker home along a route
of tarmac twisting, melting, black
beneath my rolling wheels. Oh, god
of travellers, Saint Christopher
defunct, I pray my radials
will not soon wear away. To leave
more than a skid mark, to stand
for something other than a hulk
to block the light is a machine’s
ambition. To become the sun,
to banish shade, is my vain hope.