freeway tucked in prairies: a slice of cheese
between the prayer hands of a nun 

the big clock’s for sale. 

Blister from wearing women’s shoes all day 

I don’t like the word  
“miracle.” It flattens things. 

I can fix that. The thread one half  
of a pursed set of lips. 

at 5 am the asphalt barely visible, a truck  
rolled over, showed its pale belly to the stars 

unimpressed, they took photos  
to jerk off to later anyway 

There is a limit to freedom. 
It’s in the doing.  

The tanker spilled milk which made the whole bend slick  
at the point where the mountain met the oak trees.  

Supple pinecone like a skirt on a handmaiden  
who lives in a mansion away from the road  

By the time the light comes in 
I’m a boy again.  

eventually you’re gonna get to a room where the only way out 
is back the way you came 

Interstate on the edge of sleep, 
pines press green fingerpads on either side of his greying throat. 

and the plastic knives  
at hotel breakfasts 

Things cannot simply stay this way.