We merge on the one root of cactus needles
and swerve past sixty.
Wind blows our hair
in the dusty darkness of starlight;
And across the median
the sentient beams of jaundiced eyes
glare in our direction,
whistling their humdrum tune of midnight
dressed in black bibs and tuxedo ties
on crepuscular quadrupled lanes.
I wonder who occupies the seats,
how many passengers,
where are they coming from, headed to like
left-over contrails of sea men.
Can they imagine you are my life-savior?
My partner, who holds me
against the maelstrom's seedy vortex?
Your head is cocked.
I follow your gaze to the scraper skylines
and high rises of shiny surface of guillotine.
I wonder how many married beezy men are
making love to their secretaries
floating from pollen to seed,
consuming them behind
glazed windows and locked doors,
spilling their life onto latex rubber
that laps surface oil.
Finally, in a dusty corner,
We get out.
I show you the place
where I buried my life
And cover your dead face with the same
rocky soil that sprouts cheap grass.