They say you’re mobile now,
but like a cartoon, the
ghost of your outline suspends
behind you on the road.

How long it hangs before it is the
same stuff as breath on a cold day,
only God knows; and He
cannot be found for looking.

You have read every rule the
great poets and philosophers
have etched. Your technical
grasp of love is paramount.

But to the quiet tremble
of the skin, to the warm and
unfearing heart, you are the
sweetest of novices. Go, drive away

and read no more of love.
You have studied enough.
Go drive away until you
remember why you ever

coughed the ignition into life
in the first place. And take
it as a sign that the reverse
gear refuses to play along.