texas bus love song

The aisle between us is an eye-moat too sheer
for, a tongue-leap too lear for
my minutes-to-two hope – and we,
miles from Abilene’s
shimmersign grope. So

Mourn, night, this freeway’s burrow and veer –
mourn trucks wary at Christmas, lights gripping
us, their quarry; pedal down – then fuming us free with feathery
palms, racing hand in hand with me,
graceless Greyhound groom born of a land
yet churl

To outbound which-towned peasant girl,
(up three rows) whose eyes slow close
on (hair shiny from) weeks grueling down
apples in Oregon –

Apples maybe misted (si me quieres) a sleek
beaded cold that (how I ache to) spark
(piqued to) dusky gold in (steal you from
Sweetwater) moments (if, eyes, you wake)

lost before dawn.

Published 1992 Dialtone; revised 2007