The cough that couldn't sleep, lungs weeping death and some type of moon.
I push the glass
so that I can breathe -
digging under the pillow for the letter opener
your words delivered from a beak, careful to unfold
the smell of ink, that summer
fit nicely into a parcel
Humid air which you'd spun your tires into -
to dry out the heart like jerky.
back and forth from Appalachia to panhandle
I threw rocks at the rest stops
at signs, and into bushes - hoping for the shake of beast
or creature to startle. a bat to fruit
I exhaled a few stars through the slip
of the front driver's window
and pressed my own right hand to my knee
remembering you