 |
|
Image via Mag 246
|
It’s subtle
how it calls,
how the road
yields to the curve
of your palm,
lingering
upon your tongue,
your palate quivering
with diesel and dust
as if cigar smoke, sex,
Bordeaux.
By day,
the sun toasty,
by night,
the stars crisp,
like hints of a lover’s kiss
fresh upon your skin,
soul
entwined
with the highway wind,
a liberative mix,
silver-quick
as the slivered moon
tends to the
cumulonimbus clouds
in your mind.
And it’s subtle
how you answer,
how you
yield to the curve
of its palm.
© 2014 Jennifer Wagner
Going for a mind clearing drive
with Magpie Tales & the Sunday Whirl.