we'd drive long hours, longer than my stretched out hair,
until the air was absent of pines
until we were far over the leering mountains like snaggle teeth,
jutting out, sharp, distantly lavender.
classic rock would blare from the speakers,
almost crunchy in our palms,
like old, dried flowers,
and walls of heat would slam
solid.

our clothes would be in napping, crumpled, piles
and sunlight like gold coins would spill through the
open windows,
resting on our skin like afternoon breath;
light and hungry.

our fingers would be nesting like slender birds
on the doors, leather burning our palms,
hands holding various types of cigarettes,
thumbs periodically ashing
into the screaming, sweating wind.

the summer was a woman
giving birth.