Lately I am not the traveler, but all that is
left of the road. I swear I remember the heat
of hands on my back, back before night air
was all. I promise soft breath on my neck moving

like the body on my body was not only a reflection
of the moon on my centerline, the stars on
my shoulders. I was a place pressed hard against
before I was just this path passed over. I have learned

how fast the weeds grow when there is nothing
in their way, how long the hours are when counting
is the closest company. I see the turn signals. I know
there are exits. But the highway never takes

them. There are worse things than conveyance, but I
have lost their names.