On Tripping

Back then, before a rogue thought could draw me
from a roaring world, when my breath ran out with my coffee
feeling the fidget of the body beside me,
our bold company and me, biding our time,
waiting for a beginning.

Perhaps when you ordered a latte you knew all this:
Just how I splurge on your awkward words
spinning out of the mouth, straight as Sunday,
words that stumble,
and so I would set and bind them together for you,
our intention, flush,
thick as saffron glue, only sweeter,
Sophic and level.

Now someone’s mentioned the election
And the café is busying—
aren’t we full of innuendos today.
Back to the road now, past a cove where
I follow a heron’s crescendo
into the bleak sky, worry-winged but
a tease to every less buoyant misgiving.

I hold our cups while you steer,
lifting them to accommodate the turbulence
and imagine how we will run after each other in streets
when this is all over,
how we wail open-mouthed and unreal like hollow tunnels
where wind is ushered down our centers—
the anxious shroud of unbelievable wakelessness, through which
we will kick our sheets, and moan
because of all the unfettered foundlings in our hearts, given birth to
that morning.
All this din in the cavity of our skulls
with not a waking word in the air outside the bone
as we drive
into the bay fog,
back on it’s haunches,
ready to enshroud our semi-private waiting room.