journal in a locked glove compartment

weeks when it was enough
to keep the roads in good repair
and the car sat silent
and only the weather went anywhere

days of looking up from the dirt
to the dashed line convening into miles
and all the traveling we managed
was a traveling of eyes

home was a burnt-out shell
home was the prairie grass strung with webs
home like a silent car
at rest beside the miles we could not manage

I walked out into the night
firelight to firelight
the fireflies parting like truths to avoid me
and the truths I avoided in the name of the sun

my hand
is blackened with oil
is gripping a drop-forged steel wrench
both mysterious to me

my eyes
drive down the highway
the wind blows my hair back
the wind against my palm is her memory

there are confessions
that don’t need confessing
no one should hear them
they live like a fire

they know nothing about engines
or how to rebuild a house of steel
and if we are traveling anywhere, love
then we pray to the mystery behind the wheel