we take turns saying aloud the names of small towns we pass

when was the last time you walked into a knuckle?
the cave behind a knee? sometimes i believe we are
traversing the body of a giant. her kneecaps, the mountains.
sleeping lips. cracked neck. night falls & every street is a television game.
you say, "east texas" & i say, "paradox." you say, "smicksburg"
& i say, "centralia." watching the hills name each other.
the land which asks, "who shall we eat tonight?"
we talk about teeth & where to plant new ones. the headlights,
like fresh eyes ready to see a destiny. instead, they take us
to gas station with catastrophe bathrooms. chewing pink gum
& drinking root beer. tell me love, if i were a town,
what would you call me? would you stop at my long-since-vacant
grocery store? coal fire in my throat. a row of houses,
all of which with their lights on all hours of the nights.
a lighthouse is not just a thumb by the sea. it is wherever 
you go to remember where you are from & where you are going.
i say, "harmony" & you say, "seven springs."