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

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