Route 7 Outside Nacogdoches, Texas

for Liz

It is the time before you,

for some reason, that I remember most—

the Angelina River shedding its skin

of light, the cypress water dark,

a lone crow the color of highway,

color of sky. I was happy.

The music was ours

and loud—steel guitar, mouth harp, tire hum.

I lit a cigarette. A possum winked

his dark lids in the twilight.

This is about desire,

the good pain inside distance. Later,

the night gone liquor black,

radio catching miles

of static, there was only

the ache of cicadas and wind

and leaves in the wind,

and I did not know I was driving

to you. I was driving.