The sky never touches the ground but races it, forever and ever.
I am driving us home from the church,
away from the last of summer, through the
funeral dusk. There is no bend in the road.
She is riding shotgun, exhausted, curling away
from awful truths. Blowing smoke from a crack
in the window, eyes closed.
We are surrounded by wheat and corn,
just like people always say.
I can feel the farness in my muscles.
I can feel the love in my teeth, humming.
When we get home, we can have a drink,
uncoil, not talk about it. This is what we
I want to stop the car, walk out into the fields,
and lie down on the ground, flat on my back.
I want to lie flat out, not feeling it,
until forever lets me on for the ride.
--Eva H.D., from her collection Rotten Perfect Mouth
And here's a link to another road poem, John Newlove's Driving.