in passing through
these same old
truckstops rest stations
there's no way to stop floods
of doctors waiting room
agony appointments,
the great weight
the two month wait
the three month wait
the four month wait
the five month wait
commencement
prognoses I scratch this out
on the back of a gas
receipt pinned to
steering wheel while
driving 80 on 81 while
there's these faces
on my mind. and the highway
they've threaded that
cuts me through these
mountains is just a vein
in my body of places-
albeit one traveled hundreds of times
and the slopes of horse-littered
blue ridges could be ancient
bodies
knuckles and joints
settling down into a million
more years of
watching us drive further
from and closer to each
other. oh my darling
drastic action never taken
save the scrawling of these
frantic letters while
driving with three fingers
and a fraction of sight
and wind gushing through
the window but this
all seems pretty much expected.
perhaps I quit too soon
but to follow wordless
wishes is tiresome