down the street a perfect breakfast jointto take a fuzzy hangover into black wallsand street noise and I’m picking up signalsmovie time hobos and grey depression era coatswanderers back to horse clop and Spanish cryand the sand blasting wind fury of desert night
we migrate up coast across two borders in miston ocean road right down to water’s edgeand murky ghost crews clearing a mudslidea motel in empty field behind quiet dust curtainswood panel faces molten in the wallsand fire shadows rippling waves in the ceiling
open we go my companion with your feet in Englandand your fists in the sun of a hitchhiker’s heaveneyes come to press your intent into spongy-headedpassengers flipping through an arcana of loversfor that one spark of compassion a muse to sing toand a bloody way back into the new age
I mind the peak cabin with vistas in all directionsneed fire humming here and nowhere in particularwhile you dip a toe into icy time flow finicking a doorand another secret pocket in your glow vestwith return currency good ideas and heart of goldand yet always looking for a peasant to give it to
Photo by Diego Jimenez on Unsplash