STATE TRUNKLINE

BEE LB

we’re 20 miles down 59 when you slide
behind the rusted red trailer, & my chest catches on fear

out of reach. it isn’t until we pull out from behind
that i see the pockets lining the top of each side, wonder

what creature is being contained or where they’re headed or
what they’re searching for or whether they’ll find what’s needed

to fill an emptiness. each mile ticks slower &
the sky is layered stair by stair & if the whole world

is not about to collapse, it is certainly straining under some unseen
weight. the highway bends this way & that & for a second,

a half moon slips into view before pulling away again.
we haven’t decided on our destination but i’ve made up my mind.

i’m just waiting to learn how to speak it. there’s an ache i can’t scratch
until i reach, draw tight. two wrong turns & we’re back

in the sun, my failing eyes brought to light. drive lined by empty fields,
dead grass— i bet bad. the fenced animals are out of sight,

the timing all off, the day slanted wrong.