mark elliott driver

love precipitate

on cold glass of winter

car windshield.

in that little grey car

on the impossibly icy roads of oregon.

woodchip and forest moss pressed into tires

and purring breath, fills my ears

amongst the powdered mushroom yellow blankets.

toes curl like those dried leaves of mugwort

which we hung out on the rear mirror

in yesterday‘s mellow sunshine.

oh we seek out our dreams

and tell each other

at our own peril,

frantic to feel the thrill of such sincerity

and mystic catharsis.

it all melts together into that soft backseat

misty off-beat fusion of

crushing beams piercing

of.. what was that, police?

another cold harsh light,

through sweet and tangled hair,

us joined in ecstasy before the window gets wrapped

with torch handle and you roll down the window

our magic dissipates into the cold dark december night

on that side road in eugene..

-“Hey…!! Not here…!!”

-“Ok OK.. we’re leaving.”