a toyota tercel scuries like a pale iguana
past desert mile marker 368 headed south.
pulling over hearing the welcome
crush of warm gravel.
we lie on the hood and look
up at the night sky.
you tell me there are powdered sea
urchens crushed into the paint
but we cant see them.
you say all the factories do it that way.
thinly focused sleep knit tones.
so precise the hands of the
orchard astronomers lurring
are eyelids to close.
the desert wind is dry and cold
little is goverened or reflected.
feeling the warmth of the hot engine
through the pale blue oxidized car hood.
light factory blue fades into the darkness
tanglebly felt through the nights