And still I'm traipsing through the fields
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
entraining this freight at dusklight
to escape cabbage farms, rusted barns,
and Bible-barkers who stumble
through starrified nights.
Will our fear follow us?
We poach peaches off pallets
and lick juicedrips off our lips,
like it's all we know,
on the road to salvation—
me, carving a heart into the wood
and you, a miracle
in the moonshine, grabbing hold
of my trembling hand
like maybe we're something holy.