Split Map

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