burrowing
into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the
sole passenger
with
an overhead light on.
And
I am with you.
I’m
the interminable fields you can’t see,
the
little lights off in the distance
(in
one of those rooms we are
living)
and I am the rain
and
the others all
around
you, and the loneliness you love,
and
the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,
and
the catastrophic dawn,
the
nicotine crawling on your skin—
and
when you begin
to
cough I won’t cover my face,
and
if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s
going to be fine
I
will whisper.
It
won’t always be like this.
I
am going to buy you a sandwich.