We drove asphalt for miles,
chasing dreams we knew could
never be caught; running
from small towns and old folks.
Stopped for gas, somewhere in
the middle of nowhere,
on highway 69; and I swear I
saw poetry written in the dust.
I felt like flying under swallows
of Arizona sun,
where sweat clung to skin, you
brushed away strands of
saturated hair, just to plant
a kiss where it had been.
We drove asphalt for miles,
and made love in leather seats;
where poetry was birthed
again and again,
in the slap of sweltering skin.
Bronze trophy winner
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