Hills flatline in the rearview.
Your hand resting into mine. Headlights.
An exile of clouds.
downriver a man guns
his truck. Everything smells like wings.
Now picture him one morning wearing
skirts of stunted light. No. Even less.
Crows shattered like crumbs
across our one good road.
Speech fucks the air with a proof of us.
Or. The gap between my front teeth
is the exact width of a zipper. Trust me.
Sheets. Rubbed red thighs. Roll. Rain
obsesses itself. Down the wood. Pinned up
against the window. Yes. Crests.
Yes. Shudders shut.
Lightsource whisper. Shackle me back
to the dashboard.
& do you have the negatives.
I did shave my legs. Brine-diesel. Tobacco
half-chewn & left to stench in a sawed can of coke.
They speeched & was an already.
Smear some sun in the cut.
In the town where we buried my grandmothers,
the collective noun for faggots is also a murder.
Heavens horizon, then bruise, then rust.