I'll Always Find Her In My Travels

The levies opened, autumn's pale color,
jetting through the jugular thrusts of tires that were headed west,
the coddled chill of her-on-me,
hung out for all that mattered:
the fogged direction, the
sunburned legs of the universe getting tired,
the fissure of memories squashing a mellowed scrutiny
that gasped for us back then. It was the indefinite.
It was the cracked leaks of time, a widowed view
gulping on a suckered taste, measuring the spaces,
among the shifting hues of tawny clouds
that cried, it will always work out for the better.
My speed was slow; my shearing, steady.
I thought of her as Us,
a hot jonahed moment, cocking my dick like a line geese
quickly headed south. That's when I found her
in a windshield-ed parallax of deep breaths,
a magnificent Mississippi blues vibe being lindy hopped out as
I parked this travel vessel in the drive like a break on us.