As you move up on it, a crooked road goes straight
and I didn't believe in mirages until they disappeared,
but all it takes to turn back the hands of time
is to drive across state lines into the dying sun.

Clouds shift shape and crosswinds sway the car
towards roadside exits that lead nowhere,
but only snake across naked hills, over smooth plateaus and
through dried-out, empty rivers.

Rereading your letter on westbound 1-10
one eye on the pavement--
sunlight trickles down the mountain
and black rays of rain streak the sky like shooting stars,

Racing
swallowed whole - all alone
the world disappears.

At night, El Paso rises up out of the Guadalupe Mountains
a smooth black cat sky punched clean with a million glittering lights.
Chain smoking to the border and making my way back to you,
I'll drive across West Texas tonight.