A Poem *

One hand out the window and I can't turn back now,

the air is pressing against my fingertips with something to say.

its feeding my urge to run and scream and

fold these hills into my pockets to carry with me on the days the bulldozers are too apt

to not ask questions,

and to instead flatten this land to pave the longest blacktop,

another parking lot.

warmth on the dashboard, the hair on my arms, the bridge of my nose,

strives to dominate the flush of my cheeks,

the hand i'm holding in the passenger seat,

where her eyes are lighter than the pale, white moon whose sway holds over us, now.

lighting the world.

We live behind two spot lights and a wide, cracked road.

little bits of soft green life sprout defiantly from the center,

challenging and defiant and

fresh like lips and eyebrows and the earlobes of the one you're

desperately holding onto

When the leaves start to fall I can realize that I'm alone

in a beat-up car of memories,

tapping broken fingernails to a faded rock song

that was once my anthem,

Now it carries me farther away than the hills and rivers and eternally stretching trees

I hike through when

Kismet hides the sunset and I watch

the sun rise

from the crest of a secret hill no one else can dare to see.

When my eyes close tonight my desperation will not be forgotten,

the keys are in the ignition and the

pedal has inched past eighty.

* All work on this site is protected by a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.