I fell in love
with the ground,
aligned myself
with crooked rain
and aligned myself
across the stretch
of asphalt and spit
between Chicago and Detroit.

I became one with it,
a second skin.
The sun and sleet treatments
blister us open –
we bleed out, together,
through potholes and cracks.
My pale freckles
Spread themselves
like breadcrumbs
through the Michigan dark,
a guide through a million trees
collaged with the night,
a million speckled towns
criss-crossing my way.

I fell in love
with I-94,
and although I once romanced
a shortcut across a toll road,
I could never quite shake
the haunt of the forest
and the semi-trucks
and the Denny’s making homes to travelers
where I sat and watched
teenagers falling apart,
raped by a pitstop
called “Home.”

I learned from their mistake.
Anchors are fatal.
Make love with the road.
Make love with the smell
of dead skunks and diesel.