by Brandon Hubbard
And the money runs out
so you couldn’t get home
Time went by
a year went by
To the winter again
where you load the
trunk in arid heat
And drove all night into the
Smoky Mountain gas-station towns
Turns slow-going to a higher place
where the trees are sketches in
graphite from a passenger window
And the road gets blacker
leading north
There is another kind
of crying than from the eyes
The sobbing we travelers
find behind our nose
and chests and throats
when we realize at the end
how far we have gone away
in calendars and waking dreams
Here the sky cuts open into the
other place, here the foot goes hard
burning this goddamn night
where the blue begins tomorrow.