On the drive down the Taconic,
you sleep, your head sinks then snaps
up when it reaches some reflex angle.
Here is proof we have been together
the weekend and you feel no duty
to converse. It is the late afternoon,
the adjacent lanes agleam with cars
instinctively returning to town, each
containing a tale of having been away.
We’ve passed the point where
the Berkshires fill my mirrors;
now, the Catskills appear blue-crayoned
against the western horizon.
The sun, filtered, spotlights you,
candying your parted lips.
Down and up, down and up you go
these miles, a constant affirmation.