Graffito


And so we drive through weather and night
outlining the coast with our lights
in an evanescent calligraphy, like

an ideogram for the two of us,
and the suchness of earth and water.

Graceful, dramatic, frightening
as the breathtaking dive the continent takes
into the misnamed sea.

Everything about this moment
from the tire hiss to the intermittent
metronome of the wipers,
delineates a character, much like

the stylish gang-write I saw, upon the black
metal backdrop of a streetlight somewhere;
the one which made me wonder
if archeologists of the future would find it
elegant but indecipherable.

This jitterbug line of light we describe
along the ragged edge of our world
becomes our secret art and text –

its translation known
only to us.