If spirits roam
In small spaces
Between slow burning suns
And the inexorable slide of gravity
They see our bodies
Living breathing steam
It freezes white in solid air
As if our souls are there
Getting gasoline
Out cold in orange-yellow bays
Great bright stalls, greasy ice
Where we stand
Shocked in the knowledge
Of our predicament
Driven to wander
Risking everything
Going home
