i miss driving up your back road
up to the top of that see forever
lane where the eagles dive
and circle and build nests in
trees wide with age and sturdy
with memory.
swooping along the old growth
of yellow and white and pavement
laid by the hands of millmen
in forgotten towns ago,
twisting and turning through the
forest hills as i accelerate and you
lay your hand against my leg
and stare off into the moss
as the engine shifts and drops
to climb up through the fog
split apart by the three-fifty-one
big block built in the antithesis
of the rain we watch drip off
the blades pushing the night
out of our way.
i miss driving along your back roads
and the transistor radio taped to the
dash playing the songs meant for us
only through accident and the timing
of the pistons meant for us only
through intention,
and the glass rolled down so we
can feel the ocean breeze high
above the rights pointing with black
and yellow and green and white reflecting
the directions that are
planned
for you
and
for me.