Impala

A lonely kite flying up on the highway,
The open road is my dwelling site.
I've been driving too fast.
I've got troubles with my gun.
Gasoline breath, gunmetal sunset, inked vertebrae.
That's the way the bronze road dies in my arms.

(Diesel smoke in my cigarette, whiskey stain on your tattooed shoulder)

Intergalactic river, empty museums with unmeasurable frescos.
We are the missing details of Michelangelo's craft, and we are insensitive.
Dying young, chameleon souls, nobody dares to mug us to be insecure folklores.
Feather in your hair, butterfly on your wrist.

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1962, purple haze in her broken eyes.

(We've been driving too long).