Clinch

1

The 3 am highway is wet and darker

than the clouds hung with wasted light.

Headlights barely hold onto the

white paint. It is silent, the road noise is

missing. I am okay with the lie and the

smudged detail. The churning treads

of miles is lost between the middle

ground and the horizon. There is no

ritual to this, distance is a way of

holding onto time.

2

These sheets don’t remember shit.

The topography is soft. There are no fire

razed hillsides but the erosion is there

with its waiting for the skin of life

to start. This water like tendency to settle

into silence. We struggle to tear each

other apart, to reconfigure us into

something that can endure.

.