Out there, were freeways of Montana wheat fields,
and I didn't need to say anything to anyone,
rolling down the sleeves of an Oldsmobile,
leaning out of that husk with a drunken kiss on my lips,
and I could smell the blackened stalks between the stars.
And what I thought of,
was being eighty and watching a childhood friend refuse
the thin cylinders of fluid that would pause his body