rising like cracks
the dark stain
fanning like sticky smoke

we were rooted
the fascinations burning into us
like a brand
we could feel the
swelling
we could taste the
hot bite

the whole dream jumped
into yesterday
and replayed
and we wore
tragic jacket
attire

standing in the grass
the tall buckles
catching dry stalks
and the glitter of all
that crap on the dashboard

driven the four hundred miles
folded by time
by horror and fate

close our eyes
and the dust in our mouths
turned up by the tires
thrown aside by the shovels

there is a blue I awake too
and a line of brow buckling
in worry

the smell of the week forgotten
wrapped in the sheets
burning and sharp like gunpowder
and fire

stare through the cracks in the
windscreen
huddled against the ragged
bench
the roar of the motor
the jolt of the road

your hair lays like unspooled
sunsets
like nights curtian
ablaze with a new dark freedom
full of damp wind

where you can lick the scars
with hot lightening
and drink the grease hot
volitiale escape
from the battered flasks

while a fly dances against
the yellow lure of the lamp