I keep glancing at the passenger seat
and where you are in all your invisible.
And I refuse to write that you’re not
tall and dignified corn stalks and mobile
poles racing past inside of you
or houses with bomb shell shingles,
quiet you this vanishing morning.
Only the acoustic inflections
of crow’s wings and radio wire,
only the rich green lawn of america
cut fresh widen your esophagus,
and your love for the mandolin
is another kind of escapable sound
I refuse not to sing, not one note.
And when I get home, park and night,
I’ll trace your shape’s saccharin
and chime and what’s left over
with fingernails on strings and write
another letter and send it to an address
in a city I’ve never visited and I’ll know
something was different the day
you stopped calling shotgun.

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