after you left, I drove
one hundred and fifty six
miles trying to find you.

Punched past rest stops
that punctuated the highway
like bruised lips, oblivious
to my own reflection, rearview
face swollen by your festival
of fists.

All the way, Dylan crooned
loud and wide while the wind
rushed in through an open window
and fingered my hair.

The sun peeled back, stained
my thoughts copper.  Implications
formed like blisters.

Each mile came possessed with a revelation.

A fist doesn't wait.

Machine-gunned mouths fire automatic.

Touching shouldn't mean harmful.

I metal back, search instead
for a place to bury my insistence,
that golden-edged and reckless desire
to be consumed by a man
whose fury doesn't rest even when
it is sitting still.

Loving you
has really made a mess
out of me.