That Weight

we touch every curve of hwy 51
the spoke between the tube and the hub
hang our hands to the pavement as we careen
my voice deepens and hers becomes sharper
and we talk about things that happen in the space
to which others do not pay attention

forgetful are we toward the
caverns where we unearthed our voices
the tall grass that grows there like the curved
backs of old women
who have stored their stories in the soil
hoping for just a pair of wanderers
to go digging in the night life

I remember her staring out to the black dome remembering
the half gone soul she found knelt
in a dying prayer, crying herself legless into the ground spewing the
contents of her years in a fury not inelegant
but unconcerned with etiquette what
time do we have for salutations, the woman'd said reaching
for her face
to kiss and whisper everything that'd ever been

her tears streaked my windows and we sensed the spirits
running next to our rusted out steel wheeled box
shouting the stories we couldn't ever learn
and we watched them, waving, like children, we
sensed the inequity of it all, and the opulence of the seats we hold
down here, in these fields
while all the world past chases us down a country highway telling
of where the world has been and why
we feel this weight