I stop crying only
when the motor is turned on:
the images pass by, I close my eyes
in the back seat while you’re driving
over hilly roads with the sky
shining through the leaves.
Don’t make me notice you, don’t tell me
the escape has closed up in a circle,
don’t give me this motionless world
of suspended, plastered things
leave me like a cat
at a faraway bend, at the edge of a road
where vineyards and olive groves fill the valleys,
and I won’t find my way home.
How much patient stubborn love
in the way you move across the room,
back and forth, while your arm and knee
pretend to soothe a pothole
on the dirt road
how the world lulls and things
once again tremble, I too
will be in darkness.