the universe in the front seat

the trees along the highway

are sun-soaked

and golden;

red flames lick

against furrowed clouds.

we dive

into the

skyline and

hold our breath as

we pry each other for

openings,

bids,

moments of connection.

Somehow

we get it wrong.

There seems to be a universe

wedged between our front seats,

some plane we keep slipping off,

then scrambling back on to.

A place where

the nights turn into mornings

turn into days:

the ones racing

under us along

cracked asphalt;

those days,

sun-soaked

and golden,

all red-flamed foliage

and slowly sweetening skies.

The sun,

a sailor’s warning.