World is road and hollow, will and representation.
Take me to Tucson, Flagstaff, Golgotha;
someplace where skeletons fuck in the sand
and jump at our passing to say,
“Hey, lovebirds, care to watch?”
And you look perturbed, maybe intrigued,
but we stay silent because we’re late for
the star shower and we still need dinner—
a drive-in where rollerskated servers deliver
shakes and fries and heads on platters.
We eat late on a sleeping giant’s shoulder,
in time for the storm, cruel lines of white
in the overhead black. We’re making wishes
but there are too many falling stars to count
and not enough to actually listen. Then
the light show is over, so I focus
on the black hole of your bra strap
and sigh at how it matches the ignited
crystals that broke from the asteroid belt.
A song on the radio slips through static
as rust and rain: your lips
look like prairie fires, and that’s all,
though then it’s not the radio
but me, and there’s smoke in the fields,
smoke on the gravel, smoke through your
hair sending signals all the way back.