A man drives a car from one tattered corner of the nation to another in the year of COVID. Passing from winter flurries to the wide angled West, over landscapes both shuttered and moribund, driving becomes a trance where the odometer flips over and time is the length of a song on radio. In In the Underground Garage, the poet describes not geographical states so much as the state of being in transit, where solitude slips into silence and you learn that the road is driving you.