Title Shot

There is nothing but these roads
we drive on night by night,

nothing but this rain
thrumming on the windscreen,

and road-kill littering the verges
we hurtle past,

like an endless tracking shot.
You lay your head upon my arm

each touch a confirmation that the take
is still in focus, the foreground sharp.

Our lights sweep round a corner,
make angles on the ceiling of some room.

I ease my foot back from the throttle,
listen as the engine whirrs, like film.