The car hangs by a thread from the bascule leaf,
emergency brake clenching metal,
Not much we can do at this point, ninety degrees
to the bridge deck,
our hair falling like a curtain into the back seat,
cassettes from the dash split open on the rear window.
Next stop: the territory of rockets or swimmers?
Your eyes are telling me we should get used to this feeling,
leaning away from the earth
as the earth comes up to meet us.