It feels like you can catch the wind,
you say, to my right, your arm out the window
on a hundred-and-three-degree night.  We expand—I feel you
press against me for the first time in a month. And my left already knows
the distance, the way the city streets dance across flat, Texas terrain,
ghost lights tracing leather, the shrinking
space between us
                                                        you can’t catch the wind,
I think, my arm out another window, my lips merely parting, stilled
by the lines of your neck in low, sporadic light, my hand
and the car slicing night and heat for a hungry moon;
she swallows the offering, fills her lungs,
holds her breath as we’re driven
home.