Your Last Drive

Here by the highway you returned,and flicked cigarette ashes, the only starsbristling your sky.

And on your left, you blessed the girlsborn in the Middle West, half-hiddenbehind cash registers.

You shut a wasp-wing door,took a footbridge to a border townto flood your veins.

Your eyebrows that were never plucked,the cowlick rising in a widow’s peak,your beautiful body unmarked by any tattoo—

you hid from me, and everyone. So what?Toyota made half a million modelsof your pickup,

and every other one leaves trailsof Arcade Fire.You are past love, care, addiction, blame.