the moon sliver a breast's cusp
while the tender sky blossoms,
opens its thighs and allows our Chrysler
within its starry womanhood

the highway trips us up as roots
from a lifeless willow—these grow
farther south; deeper as stretch marks
through the tempered horizon

every passing lane lingers smooth:
a craft from exhaust, tire marks,
landscapes burdened by steel—
skin left unscoured by the firm

the vapour fogs the windows
as our breath—hellbent on our drive

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