Highway 84

I see your jeans
in the mirror,
passenger side, 

and your hand
wrapped round
the gun-

How high
do you take
your octane?   

Soul fuel
on a New Mexico
highway, you take

your time,
as if this windshield
had never

been shined,
your pickin’ hand
draws slow,

back and forth
between our
steady eyes,

makes wet
and disappearing lines,
until I can see

the high desert light
on a tin sign

into sunset,
and the red, red rocks,
and velvet sky. Here,

we have all
stopped –
those of us

needing something
from the roadside
before we die –

the cactus,
and the jackrabbit
and the white 

and you and me
needing nothing 

but a damn fine view
and a little bit
of gasoline.