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