He says it’s only a black plain with derricks
pumping oil out of the ground and stars.
Small rigs nod yes again and again,
but I say no and drive my pick up straight.
It would be nice to lie in the fields tonight,
it’s warm enough, but they don’t have our names.

His hand snarls my hair, draws me near him.
I smell clay and the white moon rises.
Perhaps it’s all right to park in the fields
next to a stalled hay truck, its hood up.
The oil rigs nod in shadow, all dark
but one its piston a bar of light:
liquid and pure as lightning.

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