Thursday, October 23, 2003
I think you want me to hit you again,
but I can’t be sure.
The dusk-swallowed Georgia backwater is splayed out before us
like hesitation, like reluctance.
You’re staring out the window as we pass
Blackshear Lake—darkened, silent—
perhaps reflecting on a hand’s velocity
or the last rays of the sun
(gone for good),
your face in my lap,
the lights across the lake reflecting off the glassy black,
pointing at us,
engine humming—hungry for the fuel
that makes things go, come—
our bodies crashing together
in the back-seat, side-of-the-road,
middle-of-nowhere drive we find ourselves—
reaching a speed we can’t possibly maintain.