r e f i n i n g - t h e - s i l v e r

CROSSING THE PRAIRIES AT NIGHT

It's only an escape
you must remind yourself
of this.

As you, I, we cross the prairies,
its barren dreams
a stark canvas
drawing out our
secret lives.

We see, without words,
without acknowledgement
the brittle white disc of the moon
the crisp blackness of the night sky
stars like chips of ice.

We are aliens, strangers,
only meant to observe
not to participate, not wanting to participate
moving through space, yet silent-still.

I feel the dry, rusty breezes
The radio plays
sad, bourbon-soaked jazz
creating a space, a warmth,
an energy
meant only for us -
the last ones on earth.

Are you too warm?
Never.
I wish they'd play that one again.
I wish we could drive on forever.

Let's not go home.