a thing but you. Clear sight through all the mirrors,
no pillows or coolers or bikes strapped to the rack
spinning wheels--nothing to lose out the open windows
but our worries blowing away one after the other,
bouncing over asphalt, catching in bushes--
Now, just the wind so loud
we can't even hear each other's voices,
and the moon rises at our backs
as we plummet down the highway.
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