tell me you need more
two highways, more than one tank of gas
take you where you want to go.
the red of neon reflected off the hip
a black sedan, need a hundred miles of rain
wash the dust from your mouth. Need the warmth
bar light, need her legs, bare, the brush
her tangled hair. Need clouds
cover the moon, need the street to glisten,
you ride it out, pilfering sweetness
from this and every kind of emptiness.
to Mark Stockert's Church's Ferry