And here I am again, alone again, somewhere
rainy off an Interstate connection, bleary eyed and weary
hopscotching map lines figuring how to get back, back
to you. I've held on to the note you slipped me, a ticket
out, heavy handed as a stone cutters epitaph in granite:
I've had it, its too much, this is where it all stops.

And I know its not the end
of the world, even in this loneliness the panic of no
vacancy signs along the dark and rain soaked coast
I've roamed. But here the quiet
could be deadly.

Do you know what I mean? Can you possibly
get this? I could become some woman across a dim
lit bar, hiking up her skirt in an urgency
for love. Could you forgive that? Have you
heard this before?

But things could be worse. I could bump around
outside up against the muggy midnight sky, weepy
for you. By the time this gets to you, there could be
a tidal wave, cars might crash, ships wreck, a star
burn out. And we will have had this accident
of time apart to think and sleep and dream.