orchard

stuck behind the red
a white-knuckled hand on the wheel
you crossed yourself
and told me about death

with no religion to speak of
i smiled and showed you my skip marks
my speed my curves
and said
let’s be logical
this is no orchard we’re standing in
there are no trees here

follow me weeping
dirty your carpenter hands
in a search for antiques
these hills will guide you from grease
towards the salvation of blossoms
buses bridges
ridges and farms

open yourself to water and music
the feeling of my fingers trailing
the spider web of your spine

give me your highway smile
sweet from the bell jar mouth of jam
auction all you have been willed
and dive in