Driving the Baby to Sleep

Breaks in winter clouds
     like grease films in dishwater.


            Car seat back-facing
  baby in its gentle mouth, lion-tamer,
                           her tiny head
                demonstrating how domestic


Little Honda Fit, your large headlights
        like mouse eyes;

little coffee here, little there,
              my life tiny, my life tiny
                           underneath
                           these dry strata.

Open to my hands,
         open to my eyes
     fault of living.

Huddled copper coins
                   in a secret dish;

    scarlet and salmon fabric roses tufting
               the snow-covered graves
               as I glide by
               with my baby in this elevator
                         of glass.