this way, silent as postcard
landscapes. find us at rest on roots. count
hours until run out of fingers. draping
lovers in ornate
cloths. to dance in dim hallways.
to sex on rooftops, one hundred
faces inverted. waiting
for the bus. travel on. move along on.
tumble away, little tumbleweed.
the bus is good and mighty.
she is wheels on fire, reflecting beautiful sunsets
in wavered temple light.
she rides us away to the tunnel between
heaven and hell.
stand on the seats,
bent at the knees.
our smiles that not a soul
will ever understand.