The cars move so fast and uniform almost
as if an invisible bloodline strings through their wheels
and slips the whole industrial necklace forward,
air beaded between glass and metal.

On the way to Allston, we changed tires
only because the old ones were clogged
with ambrosial gasoline, and we couldn’t drink
enough to replace the taste of cheap wine.

We were spirits hanging over chimneys
or suburban roofs, gazing over the sharp winged
leaves attempting flight from the trees, lurching
their beautiful golden bellies in the bright wind.

We unraveled butterflies in the deep night,
trawled farms streaked with low heat and crawling
with dirt and worms of sweat spinning down
foreheads. We called the work idyllic,

because it required no destination. Only
the ability to stay static long enough to remain
on a patch of grass, treading above a graveyard
subsumed beneath our feet.

There are so many things I haven’t told you,
yet, the way your horse slopes low over the valley
and rolls like an untethered bead down and down.
Then it quenches the lake.