A nightmare deferred.

I look up.
Half-Moon shows a brave face,
bright as a muzzleflash,
while drifting lazily
in and out of my view.

Half-Moon is an inconstant wanderer. Not so the steady stream of streetlights whizzing by the window like amber comets. They trigger the thought that we are

Racing home as fast as we can.

Another thought, a vaportrail of bitter ice:

(racing home to our deaths)

gets squashed pretty fucking quick.