I never wear a seat belt.
Your voice. When I listen,
I imagine the throat of it,
the slide, the wishing well.
Some come from the gut.
Sound fills me, and I never
look both ways. Beyond
the words, I see myself
in a red, deserted place
where my figure is fine,
and my face is porcelain,
and I am barely twenty-two,
driving alone, tearing
across Wyoming, looking
for horse plates. I am
friendly with your dust.
Then the sunset road
stretches out before me
like a pale, lined tongue.
Let me follow the limit.
Let me sing on the end.
I am in love with the lip.
C.A. MacConnell
