60 Miles Inland
of mouthless deliverance
follows me home.
She is not a female.
She does not know
my newest name.
I wrote her this little note
to the soundless roar
of the San Timoteo
of my Benjamin’s crooked little laugh
of my Angela’s burrowing lips.
The heart is not just an artery;
there are valves and sandwich makings and auto mechanics
eating Zucchini Sticks from Nick’s Burgers;
there are Route 66 car shows
with tapered women and men not looking into their
cherry snow blown eyes
and men not tasting the gracious salt in the air
or trusting that an ocean will soon be near
to silently spread its fresh new dusk
to drown every one of us in one uneasy year.