The color of water. Old heaters on the roadside. Flying away, a crow. What wires between us bearing what charges.
Poplar leaves turning frog-side in a storm wind. Bashful sheep spray painted blue. The slow-rolling Irish hills, I dedicate them all to you. Yeah, again, Albany.
Rose blossom litter. Our road is the whole world. Listening to Creedence while the sun fell, the beer settling in our bellies and eyes. Got to find a way to talk about it, split open like a husk.
Three days and no stars, only cancellations. Bananas, granola, a broken egg. All day yesterday I heard sounds. While Fionnghuala slept, nibbling my shoulder, bells in the distance, faint. Later a train while driving too fast down 143.
Where are we going. We are going too fast. Soon we will be where.
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