The moon is a smudge 
on the cloudless afternoon
and I am driving home to you. 

I am driving home
to you and singing
a song that is no
song 

but a listening.

The farmers in the field cut
the dry corn and the dust
rises around their wheels
so big and so
black.  

And I am clean. 
I have no thirst 
but this.

I am driving.
I am driving home to
you.