Night after night she loops through the nausea of word games
the drunken, petty moments in which the politics of speech
sounds like theirs, standing as a cluster of dry bushes, once
cherished tomatoes gone to seed withering in the first frost.
There's this too, the guarantee of garbled fear she slurs
making one think of the disappearance of all things
which amounts to saying goodbye to yourself, icy
and motionless, plunged in a horrible ecstasy, the other you.
To drive with her, this America, this lover,
pushes across the state-line edges around the clock,
just flight and risk, until the only sleep a neck-crick,
back-creak -- roadside sleep, refuge under a hunter's moon.