The Body of the Racecar Driver

Most of The Racecar Driver’s joints are fused—
and his back is a gnarled knot
of bone—and
when he walks, when he moves,
his body lurches, his shoulders roll,
his right foot drags along the pavement.

His body is an angry body,
twisted and malformed,
shaped like the inside of the burnt husk
of a wrecked racecar, shaped
the way water takes the shape
of its container, the lines on the pavement.

And he is inside his body,
inside his new racecar, asleep, calmed
by the streamlines, the contours
of the new racecar’s cab, of its
streamlined body, its welded
chassis, its perfect body.

When he dreams he dreams
of machines grafted onto machines,
new machines with new workings,
with new teeth, he dreams of
water lining the cracks of the pavement
of an angry body able to exhaust its anger.