A Thousand Different Skies

I want to pack my life into a car
neatly -- which I'm good at --
and drive across these states in messy and distortionary lines.

I want to see the world from its highways
clear views, of open spaces --
swim in rivers, sleep in canyons,
and look upon a thousand different skies.

I want to be so, singularly alone
to know the crushing solitude of a tent for one, a meal for one, a car for one
walk down forest paths like a Gretel without siblings
and know, that I'll be fine.

Or, I want a partner
a lover who craves loneliness as much as I do,
who points us out above as coupled stars:
which exist only until the light of their destruction arrives.

(We are not pessimists.
We are physicists,
and know the only constant here is time.)

I want to exist in the side country.
To spend hours in the drivers seat and days walking through deserts,
balance my stays in gravel-floored campgrounds
with cold nights on mountain-sides.

I want cities to be an exception
like civilization is just one more biome,
where the grass is blunt-ended and you can't see sunrise.

I'm going to pack my life into a car.
Maybe this year, maybe later.
I'll crank the windows, scan the radio,
push my pedal down, and drive.