and worlds spin among the shelves
as the leaves brush the glass
the sun falls over my legs
as it fell over the running-boards
and the vinyl, and drew lines
between the aspen--sharp
the fabric on these cushions
is rough and soft, as the burr of
an old guitar,
it's case bleaching by the window
the dust and dew and fabric
the plywood shelves--are dusky
and sweet as smoke blowing back
through the gap
and the road running along beside
endless restless motion, and crumpled maps
sprawling across the carpet
dirt and light--singing, rough and sweetly
and the smell of late afternoon in the summer
--things flawed and grimed with use
and the window left cracked open
