The road behind is for seconds free
of us. Horizon’s dash wavers
between gas pedal and corrugated
mat. Funny how your absence turns
a pedal sideways. How beauty
perceived in a pale road
is borrowed. How I drive in
and out of snow, of control,
the next mile’s white fabric,
and you rolled out in cotton.
The tires beneath me,
the street. Your body’s hot
engine deploys thick air, but here
adamant wind only circulates
out and out. I converse alone
for forty minutes, to the point
where speed alienates speech.
You’re still. I’m in motion.
Thought’s pungent margins
have slid between mile markers
announcing Greyhounds to Abilene.
I accelerate to pass, cross yellow
lines into printed blank
ditch. And now I’m walking
toward you in snow that rivers
the interstate’s back. No one
survives being reborn twice.
I’m picking my steps carefully.
You’re sixty feet above
embankments, flooding streets
with heat. Wait for me.

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