A string of blue lights burning
into dusk: the used cars
huddle, fading as they shine,
a river of debris illumined
by its glower, a wash of dreams.
Some kid in jeans slicks
back his forelock, listens
to a tune: “Love, only love”—
his Chevy plowing
through the tall imagined grain
of what he wants:
the loose-hipped women
he has seen in books, their eyes
like fishhooks, nails
of horn. He slips
through gears, the motions
of his blood, teeth clenched
or grinding. Junkyards
glimmer from the roadway banks,
spare parts, accessories,
a blush of chrome,
bright universal joints,
wire wheels and mirrors.
“Love me every day,”
the hot wind’s singing.
“Love me every night.”
His engine throttles. Moonlight
drapes the valley with its gown.