Our morning view: the burnt and bright and
haze of last night’s burning sage. No time to
waft, so nibble the remnants of the fast
food and get in the truck: we’re heading East.
We doze through Utah sulfur, wax Fitzgerald
through Lovelock: Now there is a woman!
But we’re closer to Gethsemane than
the Riviera: stuck on the tracks in
Wyoming, axel breaks in Iowa.
She takes my hand and asks if I believe
in God, but I burn like a Buddhist in
protest: so scoop me into a cheap urn;
I’ll sit on a shelf like my dad, or just
the dashboard. Can’t feel my legs anyway.

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