From Highway Twelve
What time of day was it, pulled over
in North Dakota, striking against monotony,
waking up in Montana, making love on the Madison,
making love on Rock Creek, making love
resonate in the hum of the engine,
in the rise of heat, in the breaking rush
of a late afternoon storm front collapsed
around the mountains? So that now,
traveling back over the same roads
as if I am remembering the guilty pleasure
of being a passenger, a year of my life
occupies three days of driving.
(Touchstone, Number 36)
