Four o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and you'd think that I was looking for something to believe in, in the way that my hands found sanctuary on the steering wheel.

I wrote poetry about salvation in the condensation on my windows, thinking that maybe if I was able to write it all down well, I'd feel brand new at dawn.

I think that it would be easier to just get up and keep going, but the farthest that I get is the nearest mountain, where I can see a bit more than I'm used to. It's like dangling over eternity. Autumn leaves falling, intermingled with the regret of past lives that I can still taste in the air.

Occasionally, I feel as though I'm begging to something that I don't believe in, to show itself in the serenity of nature, or maybe I'm just begging myself for some clarity.

I scraped my knuckles on the stone, losing grip climbing up the side, and it always strikes me as odd when I realize that I still bleed like everything else.

It's five o'clock in the morning on a sunday, and my fingers are tapping out some unknown beat on the faded jeans across my knees, and it's the closest that I'll ever be to god.

I used to think about ******* boys in open pastures
Clothes tangled on our bodies
Thin ******* down to the mid of quivering thighs and feverish hands pushing down against the yielding earth.

I used to think that maybe that was what being alive was
Intermingling *** and adventure in the sun
Watering the earth with the drippings of some wild, summer-heat driven clashing of sticky skin
I remember wondering what flowers grow from sweat and *****.

Years later, I made love to a sun kissed boy on the banks of a river
We were wild, passionate, fearless.
Never had I tasted anything so sweet as the sweat dripping onto our lips
I forgot about ******* boys in pastures
I began making love to a boy on the water
Then I realized that sweat and ***** grow passionate wildflowers.