Vanishing Point

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Asphalt, bitumen, tarmac —

all too poetic for you.

For you, the road glows

vaselined

like the sequence

of a television dream

in which you turn

to me, finally, slow-mo

gesture me to follow.

Ahead, the horizon

is a guess

our spinning wheels

promise us.

Petroleum, perspiration,

oil the two-lane

— a break in the trees

is ours, a little door

out of the wind

we hurry through,

unbend to a forest

of height and whispers,

an empty house

we don’t want

to be alone in.

Then the road stills

when you torso

once more forward

thin into

the white and

vanishing line,

and miles fall between us

as a cut field

behind a fleeing deer.