Car ride,
on murmurs and half-closed eyes –
half the sustain of a plucked banjo string,
or maybe
Just a stiff feel,
like salt over bread,
but more like Whalebone forming
a wall around your ribs.

The car cradles us, us newborn babes,
loosed from our closing-eyes bodies,
it rocks in the wind
back and forth.
but no? wasn't that a bridge in South Dakota?

The moon shines down on the orchards,
clothed in a pale sundress
like a farmgirl
in her sunday best,
meeting a young lover beneath the apple
trees at twilight.
And the mist hangs down
over the farmhouses,
like it's sucking the ghosts
from the dirt,
But, no, that's a different night.

The road sings beneath our feet

and the car drifts towards the shoulder

and I feel like we're already gone