Until the tarmac between us sleeps
and, folding in on itself for warmth,
brings both ends closer together,
sinking mountains to the eastern sea,
there will be little rest for us both.
The country will jar you and
emotions off spires and into
clam holes, toss your mind
over the falls.
I will shake the hour-
glass down until the sand
hits off the steel for good
and you are home.