Tonight, the highway is singing beneath us.

Your heels on the dashboard, boyish dominion

as headlights flit past like lighting bugs.

Have you ever watched a house cat stalk its prey?

Slick as a thunderhead, this silent conspiracy—

I close my eyes and my body is music.

Above us, the stars swell up like plums.

You say you’d like to taste one— tired gold plush,

hot white meat. The sweet ferment of all dead things.

Do you believe in auras?

This road, our plans, are spun from dream journals

and maps of constellations.

Only the trees can be trusted.

Their branches reach like widows’  fingers,

fragmenting the sky.