Shimmering Paradox In A Dark Room Poem by Ian Blake

On my back,
the bedsheet is impassable like mountains.
It was not so long ago I would have
kicked the mountains up like gravel
to travel in your orbit.
Below, your tires scream with ambition for the lights;
the night absorbs it, and the question visits me
like knuckles gently on my temples:

That I'm queasy by nature, and cautious,
sick around a curve, pained in motion,
nauseous to put my shoes on, ailing in flight.
Yet tonight I am serene,
no drammamine in my sweatshirt pocket
or airsick bag, or bucket by my bed,
while your dashboard needle slams its head
against the glass.

I scarcely can believe there's nothing that I need
if my distance from you hurtles at this speed.