Fugitives

The downtown is all lit up but empty
of almost any inner light.
We put up with bad music and the endless
broken jaws in petty fights out on
the sidewalk where the journey
and destination are collapsing
into one thing all together.
I just speak into the paper
as if to map what I am thinking
onto two dimensions I can see
more clearly.

No one hears me in this crowded
place all clouded with the voices
of the voiceless, where the walls
are wood and carved into with pocket knives
clenched tight on sleepless nights
out on the road.
The distant motorcycle engines
can’t get far away fast enough
to escape the fact that no one
is afraid of them.

She lets moths land on her fingers,
and I have been in love with her,
lost out here just like I am dragging
cats who’ve been run over to the side.
She never cried when they would die,
but would sink down in the dark parts
of her mind.
I always try to keep things kind between
the world and me, but sometimes
they are dissonant between us.
Still tonight the view is nice
out here by this small stream
among this patch of trees
ignored by every highway I can see,
and it’s just her and me
with everything we need
right there between us,
and above is all the rest
we can’t explain.