We drive
to where we are needed.
These cars,
they deliver us
or with the ones we love,
to places
of small miracles ~
to a conversation
that unwinds your memory
on the spool
of an evening,
to a triangle of peak standing black
against the purple dusk
like a secret,
to a pearl wire of headlights,
of which you are now one,
with your music
and your thoughts
and your bags packed with
Monday’s laundry
as you drive toward the sea of city,
or to the river,
one hand out the window,
one hand on the wheel.

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.