Long drives until
you called to me
“Look up at
the green geometry
of the roadside.”
Beside us
was the impetuous landing,
the cardinal sin
of history,
mounded
with earth.

Zephyrs
were slower,
so my hair billowed,
expanding weightless,
weaving in and out
like the dusky trails
of a 4th of July sky.
Directional messages
above me
named entries
in my childhood
encyclopedia.
Punctuated
by the breathing
landscapes of methane
and rainwater, we
exhaled all
the scales and smoke
inside whatever
organ system
knew “Icky Thump”
and “Reveal Love.”

Our tires lapsed
the American ground,
at a pace
to remember.