highway quiet

in oaklahoma, in ninety degrees, with windows down, the road creatures dividing us each with their wakes
a slip of muddy air against an arrowhead sky, greens then sky, greens, then sky
along for the ride
the silence and cigarette burns, the film in my mind when
you turn to speak, you spoke in black and white
caligraphy lips
a kiss
a ticket

a black sky with rising grass and rye
i
got to get on,

you never mentioned this, being alone,


in bare feet, pacific roads
green then sea, then sky, then
sea

i
got to get on
got to get gone, and you

better come back to
me.