At a rest stop between the East coast
and the West, I call her and tell lies
about the scenery. Long stretches
of farmland have always reminded
her of being young and having nowhere else
to go. This is a fact I cannot help but know.
In the space next to me a man downs
coffee and stares at his ignition debating
if he’s awake enough to drive.
The speed and distance comes alive
and separates my time from all around me.
Signs in faded paint stain the overpasses
warning of the places we will find ourselves.
Pylons run perpendicular to the road
and cast shadows that pass over all
below them. A cable breaks
their connection as I approach
without restraint, and showers
purple sparks upon the wheat fields.
Teleporting Typewriter 