It wasn’t feeling I had to stop by every single train yard
          along the way, wondering who might be there, sleeping

or making love in the distant dusk: teenagers among
          parents who wouldn’t share their blessing, addicts squinting

their eyes to God, or the strung-out and rejected by the Mission,
          all arguing, wishing they had a few bucks to share stories

in the nearest bar, cold beer a pitiful excuse for healing
          their calluses. We drove hours that day, through towns

in Virginia we didn’t know, wineries around every turn.
          On every hill: those mansions, and as the truck followed

too closely with its giant wheels, we hoped it wouldn’t run us
          off the road. At every stoplight, crumbling: busted shops

and For Sale signs, weeds choking tracks, our love
          I hoped would last until one of us, gray light seeping

down on our face, regretted everything. I wanted to stop
          so many times, walk through streets we’d never name,

through rat-infested warehouses, breathing in the rot
          of every single city. For all the cities, love, are turning

in on themselves. And I swore—as the clouds turned black
          and the fences lining yards bobbed liked wooden snakes

as we drove on—that a deer would jump out, calming
          our nerves, just for one second, before everything ended.