The cliff gazes out to sea, standing guard
over its demise. Above its eyes,
a stolen car in neutral
adheres to gravity
without seeing

the slope
the edge
its trajectory.
The story

is these laws not breaking,
retreating after destruction
imperceptible except that
loyalty repeated

erodes.
Now the steering wheel
responds to what
it once controlled:

a rosary swinging
from the rearview mirror;
an old birthday card
lost for safekeeping
jostles in the glove box.

Because everything happens
as planned, between the waves
booming their chorus, the splash
is a church mouse, the sinking

like eyes falling shut
if sleep were prayer
and prayer dream.

At home in a junk drawer,
which if opened would gleam,
the spare key waits
its turn forever.