I build something with my emotions and call it a city.
You are to what all of the roofs in my city are pointing.
I get into the back of a truck and ride it out of the city
over a small service road and two highways
that are your arms that I am holding with my hands.
In the car you tell me your reticulate dream
(where we divorce from each other on motorcycles)
and of your secondary fear of the bridge
and of the growing intricacy in the details of the river.
It isn’t a window that you are trying to hike
with the plastic crank on the door, but the light
from my face in the window, and the rain on the window
and the small waves on the window’s glass
which as we read are a repeating series of «o»s.