Seventy Miles an Hour

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Grip tightly, and steady, bright the falling sparks
And the wind that is ready to alight, the moving marks
The yellow and charcoal-black, the great purpled hand
Of city-lit sky reaching back between the trees, the rising land
Makes the eight-ten wheel truck whose bright display
Ahead swiftly has unstuck, a zipper of night and day
Will the cloud-fall cleft apart, in a moment end the night
Will the wind-wake shake the heart as it evades the light
Of the head-lamps' dim spread, cut into the great inter-state
But a hand full of yards ahead, to tell us just how late
It has become in our travel, with stentorian road-sound
Loudly, quickly unravel our moment's grip on the ground
As unseeing machine power sunders the land without warning
As at seventy miles an hour, we fly into morning?

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