Blinding asphalt on ribbon roads through hills
built like firm breasts. Hand clutched on the shift stick
knuckles white tight and smooth. Your rough voice fills
the arched car cave, splintering the air. Thick
with all we made last night, all we found there
in dark so deep it's liquid. You are caught
in my slick throat, scratchy, sinewy, bare
and I throw back my head, laughing gun shots
fired in the wake of whatever it was
we had. These words spell history in black
on white and I don't see my life that way.
I don't see you that way. My language lacks
the strength to show you who I am. So I'll
keep driving and keep quiet for awhile.
Driving quite along the road I walk, with destinations unknown,remembering I don't see you on my way, lessons the spirit of my heart day by day.