Hold My Hand

Gast on asphalt, 

rubber rubber rubber black; 

tinted white and amber; 

petrol fumes

Desert lines; heat seen through cloudy silhouettes

two shadows from opposing lanes

rubbing the accelerator

glancing upon the brake

we cannot wait

looking out, forward, upward toward a middle line, the sky, a frame, blue and brown, eyes caught staring back along the gravel, the rub,

Arms reached out over yellow lines; head beaten down in blackened tar; fingers pointed nowhere at all

Pavement guests are noteworthy conversationalists

—they have so much to say—

parry and cross, chuckle and toss

witticisms: common lines: languages spawned by cooperality

four and two make six and eight

pulse is racing for something new

we cannot wait

anticipation, gestalt, upward onward toward a single line, our eyes

green fairways stretching out toward a single point, the horizon, 

We reach together toward the unfulfilled promise; heads held high toward weathering light; our fingers together, clasped as one.