The night, my face, your hands: The world is damp. What else is there to do with all this weight, but sink into the autumn grass, sedate, sticking to the lawn like a fresh new stamp, feeling the pulse of a steady bass amp filling spaces between us like a freight train, roaring to a new country, so late, bearing fragile cargo to unknown camps. I want to rage against the worst of me, to keep deep down that brassy, dismal light, wailing after you pulled me from the road; your shirt's sweet warmth smelling like wet birch tree. It hounds me to the core, the ifs and whys of ugly nights, the drive to overflow.