Tuesday, November 22, 2011


I am sitting in the back
of a fogged car, gray seats
and not enough leg room

behind a gas station, where rain falls
on the windows, on the roof, to our backs 

where a forest sits of
towering, overpowering, pitch black
trees with eyes that watch the night
as I am staring at your face

in reflection, water sliding down over your eyes
smoothly pressed and soft as an empty freeway, closed

to the mountains, impassible; we are late, it is cold,
ice is falling, and I am holding you.

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