Weekends sunburnt, sequoias and scrub stammering
as the turquoise bullet ripped with absolute
abandon the sharp curves and twists
mounting the ridge.

Everyone screaming they're going to be killed by this maniac - what was the point of the speed and spin-outs dangling on the jagged precipices? Some possession or fait accompli that ripped open not only the bodies moving like evaporation to the sun but indexed chaotic passion. Would lead to the spring-fed and question. Standing, say, here.