You ask me how it is and I shrug.
You taste the picture in your head
the sweetness of this rural life
the away of it
your hands drawing mountains and fields
flowers and birds in the air.
How do I crack open
the agony of a place so green
at least on the face of it, on the pretty pretty face of it,
the face that you see in your mind’s eye when you think of me here
windshield and wheel and window cut short
the tender dance of someone
becoming someone else’s dinner
as we race on oblivious,
headlong into the night.