The West falls away behind me
as dust clouds mask distant mountains
turned to shadows in the rear-view.
Glimpses of the past slide to my left
and to my right with every curve of the road.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
and winding between
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes
as far as the eye can see.
And even in this out of the way place,
only highway and scrub highland,
I ride fast as lightning, a thunder strike
knife stab, thrust from coast to coast
piercing the body in two.