rest stop 

i buy a satellite from a vending machine.
all the ghosts are circling like sharks.
every time i pull over at a rest stop
i think about staying there forever. living
in that lush liminal. standing on the roof
of the wingless car waving as people
come & go. some, assumed into the clouds.
others, turning into dust. i drink a gritty coffee
& eat a swarm of locusts. my favorite rest stops
are the restless ones. the ones with blinking
lights & cars that won't start. a man who has
been turning to call down the moon for months.
i don't want a shiny place or one with clean glass.
i crave the anywhere-ness of the right kind
of side of the highway. in the middle of pennsylvania
the world can feel the size of a tongue.
or, when it is raining & grey, even smaller.
a pinwheel or a frog. if i stayed i think 
i would start a shrine. it would just be my
open trunk, or, once the car has run away too,
just my mouth. i would point & say,
"leave a note about the distance between
where you think you're going & where
you know you'll actually end up." the red lights
eat each other like tadpoles. i call you but
you don't pick up. the road becomes a ribbon.
i use it to wrap myself up tight as i can. 
remember the satellite. close my eyes 
& hear her blinking, taking pictures of us
from as far away as she can get. all blue 
& storm cloaked & bright.