TWENTY-FOUR

oh nevada,
you desolate hourglass
of pavement
each kiss
we motorize
is a parched
promise, each
clapboard pawn
shop a potential
engagement ring dealership.

vast, vanishing
expanse -- are you sleeping? -- somehow
I've come to be in
states like this one:
foot all the way down
on the pedal
pushing through
not to notice
writhing details -
the tumbleweed,
the tree with all its
branches covered in sneakers,
the great salt mountain.

twenty-four could be
my highway driving year
route fifty
the loneliest road in america