I’m driving your pickup

through the back roads

 

no idea where I’m going and you

are high, ranting greasefire

 

you turn to me, oxen dead

in your eyes, am I dead

 

I have to collar you

as you open

 

your door

to fly into blackness

 

I feel we’re shucking off

it’s just you and me and we

 

are alone together

you, hollow worms

 

me, still loving like the dirt

of the North Carolina roads I let

 

wander us home one hand

on the wheel the other

 

twisted into your red t-shirt

and we are both

 

screaming, I am so certain

you need me

 

I never slow down

the night sky

 

yawns over your pickup

summer bugs hum with the tires

 

there is nothing in the pines

or in the crosshatched stars

 

I expect the next morning

will bring you  back

 

you rattle around the apartment

leaving me

 

the open door

saving you was not

 

enough I am gutsick

due North