Larks Die Too
Just for laughs, he joined me
astride the running board of the Hudson as I drove,
headstrong, headlong and reckless, over
prairies, drifting dunes and granite heights.
Racing the sun but losing,
we tore down those blacktop trails,
that wore him and me and the Hudson
as a grindstone blunts a blade.
Across three States, afire, we blazed
until, in the shrieking twilight,
his face burnt crimson in the pagan flames of day,
his red and salt-rimmed eyes fixed in an empty gaze
and registering absolute zero, against all sense,
he took one step, arctic and northerly,
and spilled into the soft Mojave
and foundered in the waiting, famished sands.
Magnapoets, July 2006.