I-80 Heading West
so it is you and a boy in a car.
one of you is a god, or a martyr,
or maybe you’re both a reflection
and it doesn’t matter that it feels
like you’re drowning in your own
chrysalis. you have to understand:
this is not the first time.
causality, balanced, knife-point.
you will never not be here again.
it is you, and a boy, in a car,
and something cracks through: half-
formed, mewling, inevitable.
this too—you, it—a lesson.
you are seeking something mythical.
instead you will only get
a gun to the head.
you are a cultivation of jagged
stigmata. it is you as much as him.
the night blurs honey-wine.
it never mattered if it hurt,
you’d forget as fast if it hadn’t.
it is you, and a boy in a car
and he is never any different than
the last time you felt this ache.
you are nothing more than transient.