If time were real, we'd be its roadkill

we may be lost in the straightness of the road lake

and in that wasteland swift and still,
the landscape haze-clouds fly through us,
silver grasses bristle past us.

at forty something degrees and odometer hovering high

we watch, passive, crass, as the crow
pecks at its own carcass. Passing

the oleander hamburger town under copperpenny sky,
petrol stations suckle at nomadic trucks in the afternoon heat,

while we close our eyes to dust and dash

and let them fill with crimson.