NEW YORK TO ATLANTA IN FOURTEEN HOURS OR: 2 A.M. CONJUGAL


Highbeams and horns blaring.
Brakelights flare red, then dim.
I rush headlong, a streak

 

of woman refusing
death, night blindness—a seam
stitched white with wanting. Meek,

 

made low by bad desire,
I tempt Fate, bet my Life,
zigzagging the highway

 

home to bed him. A wire
of lust heats my blood like
cool, cool junk gone awry.